


Sons of No One

by PurpleMoon3



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Altaïr is a Momma's Boy, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Death of OC, F/F, F/M, Gen, Here be feels, M/M, MurderBabies, No Plot/Plotless, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, Renaissance Era, Slice of Life, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 42
Words: 60,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleMoon3/pseuds/PurpleMoon3
Summary: Altaïr reincarnates into the year 1476.
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 690
Kudos: 961





	1. Chapter One

Death had been a choice, Altaïr remembers, and not a difficult one. He had been tired in both body and soul. A man is not meant to outlive his children. Time has dulled that feeling, though, Death had dulled it. The feeling of the chair is sharp in his mind, a bare and sturdy thing meant to last generations, supporting aged bones as he fell asleep to the glow of the Apple and the echoing sounds of angry, pounding feet. 

Altaïr remembers the frustrated, impotent shouting of the Mongols so loud and vengeful it reached him even in his Library. He remembers placing the disk in his lap as he drifted off to sleep; dreaming. Dying. 

He must have died. He does not recall what came after. Only a vague sense of discontent lingers in his mind, but even that he is unsure of. Perhaps it is that as a soul without a body to hold it one cannot process sensations properly. Altaïr doesn’t know. It is still so very hard to think. He has a feeling he has had these thoughts many times, now, awareness drifting away and back like a boat tethered to dock by a single fraying rope. 

Yet through it all he knows the indisputable fact: Life is his Choice. 

It had not been as easy a choice as one might think. There is an insidious comfort in Death even when it proves to not be the legendary Paradise. It is a place of rest _._ A place of completion _._

It is only that Altaïr had never been one to be satisfied with such things when his thirst for knowledge goes unquenched in the face of _you have done your part, little Eagle._

And so Altaïr had made his choice and bide his time. 

Eventually something _changed_. 

What was cool and gray bleeds into warmth and red. Silence is broken by distorted whispers, and a sense of drowning-not-drowning. It is hard to think. He suspects he sleeps more than anything else in this new prison of sensation. He dreams of Maria, of their sons, and has nightmares of _forgetting_ ; their faces nothing but featureless blurs of flesh. He dreams of Malik with a new arm of shining gold and a woman’s voice telling him _rest now, little Eagle_ as the bodies of their brothers litter the courtyard.

He dreams of Umar kneeling before all of Masyaf and Salah ad-Din’s army, face as much a blur as those of his wife and sons, but the press of bodies around Altaïr as he struggles to reach his father is clear and vibrant. 

His prison shrinks until the pressure can be borne no more and Altaïr holds onto the Life he Chose with fingers like claws. He screams defiance and attempts to turn his weak body and toothless mouth to defend himself from the faceless monster that holds him aloft as it announces it’s prize to the world.

_“You have a son, Madonna.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this. I didn't think it wise to have yet another WIP floating around on the internet. But as we are all trapped in our houses and I can't use my precious precious flour to bake cookies I figured someone might like to read it.
> 
> And I have literally no idea where I am going with this plot bunny other than Altaïr thinks he is a much better at Dad-ing than Ezio, Desmond doesn't understand why they can't all get along, and the courtesans of Florence/Venice both adore and are terrified of the little murderbabies.
> 
> Chapters will likely be short and updates erratic.


	2. Chapter Two

Babies, Altaïr decides, are a necessary evil. He cannot remember being so helpless, even as his body gave way to time and his home came under attack, and the strain he must put his muscles through simply to raise his head is akin to fighting Al Mualim and the Apple. He cannot yet speak, his voice as whisper-thin as a man lost from civilization for years, but even if he could he does not know the language. 

That fact surprisingly grates on him more than any other. He had traveled a great deal in his first life, and while far from fluent he has a passing understanding of his mother’s tongue, the French many of the crusaders used, Mandarin and Mongolian, as well as the Latin that the Christian Scholars favored. Though admittedly that last was a language he had more knowledge in the written version. Still, there are turns of phrase, certain repeated words, that ring of familiarity and so Altaïr must assume he has been born somewhere in the known world.

He thus gathers his exhausted patience as he drifts from sleep to strain to feed to sleep again, listening throughout. Learning. It reminds him of his youth, of his days as a novice without a hint of growth on his chin or a blade by his wrist. He is in a house that is something like a Garden. His mother, for so long a blur he would best recognize by the lye-treated brightness of her hair, keeps him away from the other flowers that he hears more than sees. A few times one sneaks in to tickle his chin and he knows their duty by the colorful silk that clothe them like the softest petals. 

It is from one of these elicit visits that he learns his name. His mother only ever cradles him to her milk swollen breast and whispers _piccolo_ , which he can judge from how often that word is bandied about elsewhere in the house is not a name. It’s not until a flower, young with unblemished skin and rich brown hair and eyes, tickles him under his chin so that he grips her finger in his fist that he learns his name is Federico. 

Federico di Firenze, figlio di Milana. 

His father, he learns when he has the strength to crawl and enough understanding of the language to recognize more than the odd object, whom he has been named for is dead. 

Executed.

Hanged.

The knowledge hits Altaïr with surprising potency. He sits, stunned, at the door of another flower as she sips at a glass of wine and gossips with an undressed man. The emotion that wells up and spills out of his eyes he can barely comprehend. He wails, frustration and anger comfortingly familiar as someone comes running. His eyesight may have improved in the months since his birth but the tears make it useless as he is picked up and cradled and there is shouting that only makes him wail louder.

Altaïr never knew Maud but for the few times his father spoke of her. She was not born to the brotherhood, but she had followed Umar into Masyaf in hopes for a life different from what the English had given her. She had been hopeless with a sword, but a natural talent for throwing knives that Altaïr inherited and had always brought a spark of warmth and pride to Umar’s face. 

Bringing Altaïr into the world had killed her.

Altaïr had wondered why his new father hadn’t come to claim him. Had he been waiting for Altaïr to be weaned? Did the men of Florence not claim their natural born children? Did he just not know? It had been an academic line of wondering as Altaïr grew and explored his environment. Those born to the flowers of Masyaf were always taken into the household of those already married, and if not the flower was usually removed from the Garden to become a wife. 

The Auditore Bastard had thought he wanted to know simply so he could better plan his own future.

But the very day his mother unknowingly gave birth to an Assassin, Altaïr’s new father and grandfather and _uncle_ were executed in front of a crowd.

Like Umar had been.

His mother’s voice washes around him, but he can’t hear it. He doesn’t hear the shouting, the accusations, only buries his face in his mother’s chest and digs his fingers in her dress as he cries at the _unfairness_ of it all. He doesn’t think about how he hadn’t cried in this new life, not properly, or how he was such a calm, well mannered infant. Unnaturally so, perhaps.

He doesn’t hear the slap that resounds or the slamming door. 

Altaïr is only vaguely aware of his mother retreating to their shared room, her rocking as she tries to soothe him, a stream of apologies pouring from her mouth as exhaustion calms Altaïr’s screams and he falls once more into slumber.


	3. Chapter Three

The Madame is a woman of bearing and a hard shrewdness that puts her at odds with the rest of the courtesans, or flowers, as they call themselves _._ But that is exactly why she leads them. After the _incident_ Altaïr finds his explorations much curtailed on her order. There are no other children in the Garden, in Mughetto, and when his mother is not entertaining men of her own or performing those duties related to the upkeep of their home he is left under the watchful eye of the Madame.

She is tall, though not as tall as his Maria had been, with a nose that had been broken one too many times and a smile that is more teeth than welcome. Unlike the rest of the flowers her hands are ugly things. Her hair is bound back in a braid so tight the very skin of her face seems stressed, and the dress of silk and ribbon and _respectability_ she wears like an Assassin’s cowl cannot hide what she is from those with eyes to see.

“I had to refund Messere Garbagio’s fee!” She berates his mother, again, and though Altaïr can now manage some degree of walking the fact only makes his mother clutch him closer and insist on carrying him everywhere. “Lord knows if we will see his patronage again! Nothing kills _amore_ like the sight of _consequences_. I can just imagine what he’s telling all his associates about us.”

After his mother leaves, a stiffness in her back and bitterness trapped on her tongue, Altaïr glares at the Madame. There is a very thin blanket he is left with along with what was clearly someone’s attempt at a doll. The thing is missing a leg and impossible to tell if it was meant to be an animal or a human. The reborn Assassin suspects it had been, at one time, a stocking.

In the privacy of his own mind, Altaïr dubs the misshapen toy Malik.

The Madame huffs and returns to her desk and the large book that sits upon it. There is a small shelf in the office that holds several more books. Most lack any sort of title that Altaïr can see but they glow a soft gold under his Second Sight. Journals, or accounting, and Altaïr stews in his inability to reach the damn things. Books are valuable, and though he can blame her for much he cannot begrudge the choice to keep them out of the hands of a toddler.

A true child would be just as likely to rip pages out and stuff them in his mouth as try to read them.

Sef had always been shoving things into his mouth. Certainly, it had made weaning him much easier but the former Mentor never thought he’d have to instruct his own son on the difference between bread and a _rock_ and why one should not try to swallow it. 

Altaïr blinks to clear his vision as the Madame sets aside her quill and threads her calloused fingers together. She peers at him, khol darkened eyes narrowed and heart red lips soured. With barely a moment of consideration the born again Assassin shoves the three limbed doll into his mouth and gnaws with aching, toothless gums, spit dribbling, head tilting. The woman snorts and leans back in her chair, suspicion dissuaded. 

She keeps a clean office, and curled up in the corner of the very center of the Garden is not a bad place to spend time. If not for the way the Madame made him feel like a hostage for his mother’s good behavior it would be ideal; the Madame has a habit of speaking to herself, complaints whispered as she notes the costs of food and supplies and men that _demand_ more than they paid for. The price of a wet-nurse contrasted to the loss of income from his mother still milking - or the handful of men that _like_ that sort of thing. 

She has an entire notebook tracking the days of her flowers, rotating them out of the bedrooms and into the kitchen or laundry as necessary. Some women spent their time off their backs as actual seamstresses, though they did not have the skill to craft clothing from raw fabric they could patch tears and let out, or in, seams.

And while all the flowers could count well enough to be sure their clients did not try to cheat them the Madame was the only one in Mughetto that was literate.

Aside from Altaïr. Not that _she_ knew that.


	4. Chapter Four

Balls are excellent for practicing coordination and reflexes. The reborn Assassin isn’t quite sure where Gianna got the thing but he can make a guess. It sits fairly large in his small hands, a core of heavy wood covered in brightly dyed and stitched leather, but a man grown would find it to nestles in the palm easily enough. It does not bounce well, but it is perfect for juggling and slight of hand. 

Altaïr tosses it at the wall, anyway, putting enough effort into the throw to make the red leather crack solidly against the wood before discharging some momentum into the floorboards and smacking back into his hand. On the return trip the ball only just misses the small collection of… trinkets, treasures, _toys…_ that Altaïr has been gifted over his three short years of second life. He keeps them in neat piles against the wall beside the chest his mother keeps their few spare clothes in. More Altaïr’s than hers. 

Altaïr strongly suspects that he has been spoiled. There is a distinct difference in being an only child and being _the_ only child. As none of the other flowers in Mughetto have children of their own, those that can overlook his less child-like characteristics have developed habits of _trying_ to pick him up, patting his head, slipping him extra scraps of food, bringing back second and third hand things that he would look _così carino_ in, and gifting him random trinkets of various quality. Sienna, who seems more immature than himself, has often returned late from her working hours with her pink dress folded into a basket and dirtied by the collection of broken brickwork and stone she spills beside the fire for the two of them to comb through for the prettiest and smoothest.

It irks the Madame, who gives them both long lectures on acceptable behavior and carriage and the importance of not dirtying oneself with _dirt from the ground, probably has shit in it and now on your dress._ _What are you, a pig? A fat pink pig rolling around in shit. I should turn you out into the street you like it so much._

Sienna sniffles all through the lectures, head bowed. Contrite. 

It lasts for a week, maybe two. Eventually Sienna forgets, eventually the quiet, mousey flower slips in through the door with her arms full of stones instead of coin and the cycle starts again.

Altaïr throws his ball and watches as a lone yellow and blue painted soldier falls to his attack. The four legged creature to its left also falls, and Altaïr scowls. He still needs to work on his aim. Assassin’s do not kill innocents. Even if it _is_ impossible to tell if said innocent is a sheep, dog, cow, or particularly short tailed fox. 

“ _Piccolo. Amore mio_ , come. Sit with mama.” His mother calls, arms raised as she puts the final twist in her hair to keep it up and away from her long, slim neck. From a necklace of green silk that matches her eyes hangs a tasteful pendant of shining copper and glass. It draws the eye straight to her ample chest. “Come. Sit.”

She’s very pretty, his mother, and she looks nothing like him. Her pale arms reach down to lift Altaïr before he’s climbed halfway onto the bed and if it were anyone else he’d kick and bite and _claw_ at the presumption.

But she’s his mother.

She twists around on the bed, one leg folded and the other dangling down, and begins dragging the brush through his baby soft hair. He has to dig his fingers into the bedding as every pass of the brush catches on knots that never go away no matter what they do. His mother’s hand is warm on the back of his head, trying to hold him still while teasing out the mats. 

“You should cut it.” Altaïr suggests, because his hair had always been a hassle. Presumably he resembles his deceased father, but the few times he’s picked up one of the garden’s mirrors all he can see are the time-blurred faces of his own children. His hair is exactly the same, though, following him into the next life. He’d prefer to keep it short.

“Perhaps I should.” Mother sighs, reaching for a comb to pick at a particularly stubborn knot. “I do not understand how it can look so lovely and yet be filled with such mess.”

Altaïr shrugs, a sudden impishness taking hold. He leans back, head pressing into his mother’s stomach and whispers, “Nothing is True.”

She bopps his nose with the brush, carmine lips smiling as when he yelps and covers his face. “I will be as gentle as I can, but you know how Madame Cosima feels about _apparenze._ ”

“I won’t be seen, mama, not if you don’t want me to be.”

“That isn’t,” Mother sighs. “Everyone must work, Federico, and you will help Amara in the kitchen. Do not think I haven’t seen the way you’ve eyed the knives. I am your _madre_. Listen to her as you would myself.”

The Assassin grumbles, body jerking forward at the sudden lack of pressure as the brush finally succeeded in passing out of his tangled hair. Madame Cosima was busy tonight, something had happened in the city that had all of the Madames converging at La Rosa Colta, and his mother thought him too small to be left alone or exposed to the _intimate_ details of the business.

And Amara most likely wouldn’t let him at the knives, and he couldn’t just hide one in his tunic: they were counted every morning and if one was missing the Madame would take the cost out of whoever was on duty. 

With his hair properly tamed and tied back she takes his hand and leads him down past the parlor and the evening’s patrons. In Mughetto, everybody worked. Mother’s kisses are soft and chaste, a brush of lips against his forehead and a wave of perfume that hangs around Altaïr’s head like a sweet cloud. He promised to be _nice_ and ignores the coos from Amara and the other kitchen girls.

Altaïr takes the cleaning rag he’d been given and listens with only half an ear to his instructions as he watches the figure of comforting blue and gold sit in a boringly grey-white figure’s lap.


	5. Chapter Five 1/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for STDs and a drunk guy who doesn't get that no means no. Not that he manages much.
> 
> Was going to have Leonardo interrupt but I'm cutting this chapter in half since so much happens and it had an entirely different feel from the first bit. 
> 
> Also dysentery was like, a big issue for armies during the Crusades. Bunch of knights getting sweaty and having diarrhea during battle. It was messy. It was gross. Altaïr mostly remembers the smell.

As part of his mother’s contract to live and work in Mughetto she surrendered, in Altaïr’s opinion, a rather large portion of her earnings to Madame Cosima. This was not done _entirely_ out of greed. Altaïr had spent day after day being a quiet nuisance in the corners of her office. The Madame used those surrendered funds to keep the kitchens well stocked and healers on call. On the one occasion a flower contracted an illness that made her unsuited for future work in the Madame’s eyes, the cost of her treatment was paid out of the garden’s coffers and then she was released with whatever savings she kept in addition to a purse containing a single month’s earnings.

Two if she was frugal.

Messere Capone, the only patron the former flower had not shared with any others, ended up being banned from Mughetto while those flowers that blossomed outside the garden were given strict orders to never again offer their services to the man. Altaïr understood the gist of what had happened, but he didn’t understand how being _French_ was a qualifier for disease. Though he couldn’t say he didn’t _not_ understand. French being who they were, running off to all parts of the world, invading other people’s lands, shitting in their armor…

Perhaps the Crusades had left him biased. 

Point being, though his mother gave a great deal of coin to Madame Cosima and the garden she kept some back for herself. It stayed in their chest, in a small clay pot cushioned by old rags and clothes Altaïr had grown out of, excepting once or twice a month when mother would pour the collection of copper and silver coins onto the bed. Mother would separate the coins based on metal and origin and even though it was silly, he was a man grown in mind if not body, the proud smiles she gave him when he correctly counted out their wealth filled his cheeks with warmth.

Despite living in Florence, which was some sort of economic center, his mother did not use the banks. Instead she chose to invest in tangible property; little things that she could pack away and sell should the need arise, and after counting out their funds with Altaïr she would scoop up coinage and child and together they went off to the market. 

Altaïr had been almost two before he’d been allowed to accompany his mother to market. His youngest uncle hadn’t even seen his first decade before he had been hanged as a _conspirator_ beside the rest of the Auditore and _mama_ had harbored a quiet terror that Pazzi sympathizers would take Altaïr away, or worse. It proved to be an unfounded fear. If the little dark haired, amber eyed infant was noticed at all he was immediately dismissed as just another _whoreson;_ an unfortunate but inevitable product of the profession. 

The market was a market similar to countless others Altaïr had visited in his previous life. Merchants displayed their wares, tongues honeyed as they cajoled patrons. Thieves lingered at the edges of shadow, watching with eyes like hawks as they searched for the easiest, fattest purses in the milling crowds. Beggar women scowled at his mother with their eyes even as they pleaded with their mouths. Street children trailed after the servants of the affluent, skinny and smudged with dirt, gazes darting away as Altaïr met those hungry glares with his own. 

If he clutched his mother’s skirt a little tighter at the lack of gray cowled informants, who was to know? 

Certainly not the little _cazzo_ that walked right up to his mother, slipping from behind a stack of fabric bolts, face clean but for the expression of dark pleasure painted across it. “Ah! Milana, _bella_ , I would not think to see you… up and about this fine morning!”

Mother turned away from the collection of needles she’d been examining and looked her caller up and down. His pale cheeks were flushed, his walk loose, his clothing in a state that would have had Madame Cosima wrinkling her nose and pointing to the laundry tubs. Mother offered the man a gentle smile, probably out of pity, before dismissing him with a turn of her back. There was a particular thimble with intricate detailing that had caught mother’s eye.

“As far as you are concerned, Fillipo, we are not.” 

The _cazzo’s_ eyes flickered down to where Altaïr gripped his mother’s long skirt. Fillipo should have known, if he had any manners, that it was _market_ _day_. Altaïr glared, eyes taking in the human shaped mass of gray that bothered them and noted the flickers of red that came and went like lightning. 

Altaïr frowned. 

Fillipo took an alarmed step back, before rallying as his cock took over from what little brain he had. The man followed them as mother put the thimble back on the merchant’s table and carefully stepped away. 

“You wound me, _la bella_. Please, let me show you my sincerity… the trinket, you like? Let me get it for you?”

“Steal it, you mean. I have heard how your father caught your hand in the family coffers.” Mother batted her eyes coyly, leaning toward the persistent man as embarrassment slowly transformed into hope. Altaïr knew Fillipo to be a gambler. A bad gambler. An _irresponsible_ gambler that put his own family at risk. Mother danced around him and slid into a narrow space between two stalls, cleverly maneuvering them until Fillipo was mostly hidden from view by her body. Her hand slipped between the folds of his clothing, but before the man could open his mouth to voice his pleasure mother’s grin turned fierce. She tutted. “My, my. I’m sorry, Fillipo, but I’m afraid you can’t afford me. Your purse is just too… small.”

The muscles in the flower’s arm flexed. Her would-be client paled, a strangled whine coming from his throat. Mother moved away, wiping her _unclean_ hand on her dress before reclaiming her shopping basket from Altaïr. She smiled down at him and the sun made her braided hair glow like a halo around her head. 

“Now that that business is out of the way, let’s find a treat, hmm? _Amore mio?_ ”


	6. Chapter Five 2/2

Mother bought them bread and roasted garlic. The crust of the bread was thick, dusty with either flour or ashes, and hard, but once the loaf was cracked in half the inside was warm. Hot trails of vapor drifted from the exposed innards and Altaïr gleefully scooped out honey-sweetened bites with his fingers, trailing after his mother as she continued to peruse stalls while working through her own portion.

Altaïr tugged on her skirt, and the blonde absently passed him a small wineskin filled with weak beer. It too was warm, and not entirely pleasant, but water wasn’t safe and wine wasn’t allowed. He was too small, and the wine too expensive. The garlic squished against his teeth, flavor sharp, and he cut it with careful mouthfuls of crust. 

They passed into an area with row upon row of jewelry merchants, silversmiths, and similar artisans. Altaïr knew from experience they would be there awhile.

The reborn Assassin had a few coins himself, a child’s handful of copper intended to make him feel important rather than give him real buying power. Altaïr reached into the red silk scarf folded around his middle and examined the coins as his mother held a small vial of perfume, turning it in the light and scattering pale blue reflections from the glass. He could purchase more garlic with his three pennies. Maybe some meat. Or a nice ribbon to string through his mother’s hair. He didn’t have to spend it all; mother would probably let him store it separately and save up.

But she just as easily might not, putting the coins back into their hidden jar until the next outing. 

What Altaïr truly wanted was a good knife. He did not need something large and intimidating; he knew his limitations and he was far too small for a proper sword anyway. Something simple, something small, something  _ easy to hide _ was what he wanted. What he could use. But the cost of metal even for a small unadorned blade was far out of his price range.

He let his annoyingly long hair fall to shade his eyes as men and women walked by on their errands. He rubbed his fingers together, banishing the remains of his meal as he darted a glance at his mother. Spots of gold flickered in his vision, and his hands flexed. It had been a long, long time since he’d been a novice in truth. Even his demotion by Al Mualim had been brief.

But everyone had to start training somewhere. If he was very, very careful he was just tall enough to reach most men’s waistlines and the pouches kept there. Altaïr sighed. A knife would make it so much simpler. He watched as his mother laughed with a merchant and exchanged several coins for a silver locket, though she declined the offer of a chain to go with it. Giving her goodbyes she took Altaïr’s hand and moved him along to the next stall to catch her attention. 

Once it did, though, he slipped unseen into the stream of moving bodies and got to  _ work. _

It was both easier and harder as a child. His body was small, he had to take two steps for every one of his marks’, and matching the motion of moving arms to go unfelt as well as unseen was  _ difficult. _ Why did  _ italiani _ have to wave their arms so much as they spoke? The amount of times he had to abort an acquisition to ensure his safety far surpassed his successful thefts and each failure stung his pride.

He was the Eagle of Masyaf! He taught others what it meant to be Assassin.

He could almost hear Maria’s voice scolding him like he was one of their children: He was Federico di Firenze and he was  _ four _ .

Altaïr glared into his hands and the funds therein. More than he started with, and some silver lire to boot, but not enough. He had considered stealing a blade instead of coins. Most men, and several women, carried knives for daily utility if not combat. The problem was that those knives were so traceable. Either family crests decorated the pommel or ridiculous patterns and images were etched into the blade itself. He needed simple tools with no origin that could lead to a smith to interrogate.

Huffing, Altaïr tucked his ill gotten wealth away and stood on his tiptoes, trying to sight the familiar gold-blue of his mother as the world washed into a pale reflection of what it was.

A tremor went through his stomach.

He was in a completely different area of the market than when he started. Of course he’d had to fight to keep up with crowds and hide among them as he made for poorly guarded purses and avoided fellow thieves but… he hadn’t realized he’d come so far. He didn’t actually recognize the area. Chickens clucked in wooden cages, ducks hung limp and lifeless from poles, there was a certain extra level of dirt beneath his feet that mother usually avoided. He could hear a goat make an annoyed bleat somewhere out of sight.

There was nothing of use to climb except for the city wall he could spot in the not-so-far distance. He should probably stay put. If not mother, then sooner or later some other flower would pass by and even if she was not part of Mughetto all the gardens shared a creed of their own. They would see him home.

A sharp cry of a hunting bird, unmistakable, and Altaïr was moving before he could think twice. His shoes welched in a spot of what he was determined to call mud as he avoided a self-important man on a horse, and soon came upon a stand selling pigeons. Trapped in a reinforced wicker cage that was perfectly fine for the small messenger birds was a hawk, hooded and jessed.

Brown, ruffled feathers and an open golden beak testified to its distress. What was a pigeon seller doing with a hawk? The smaller birds fluttered and cooed their own concern with each cry the predator gave. 

The hood hadn’t even been secured properly. 

Altaïr stared, and in the world of intent the bird glowed sulfuric yellow. It lifted its head, blindly searching, brushing against the top of its prison. Another cry, plaintive. 

“Rather undignified for such a proud creature, I think.” A voice softly spoke beside Altaïr. The Assassin stilled and slowly turned, neck bending, eyes widening as he took in a blue as gentle and soft as the open sky. Altaïr blinked and the sense of sheer kindness resolved into a man in fine clothes and a bright red hat. It was like someone had squashed a cherry and set it atop his head.

“It’s not right.” Altaïr agreed, turning back to the stacked cages and the eying the merchant manning the stall. He was half-asleep and looked a bit like a pigeon himself. “It’s  _ wrong.  _ Hoods are meant to calm and protect, not… that. She doesn’t even have room to stretch her wings.”

“You know about falconry,  _ passerotto? _ ” Delight swam onto the concerned face of his new ally. Mischief joined it and suddenly Altaïr was reminded of novices daring each other to sneak into his library when they thought he didn’t know. Blue eyes sparkled and the man knelt down to Altaïr’s level. “How do you know she is female? I cannot tell myself, other than that she is young.”

Altaïr shrugged and reached back into his scarf-sash for his silver. How did one know that fire was hot? “She feels like a she.”

“Hmm. Well, I have to admit my studies have been more focused on the mechanics of their flight rather than the sex of the birds ah... Yes. Yes!” The man set a bound sheaf of papers on a cage and began going through his numerous pouches and pockets. Altaïr glanced at the papers and saw half-formed charcoal sketches of common people. The artist finally produced a small pouch that clinked with promise. “Maestro Andrea would be so disappointed if he knew… well! What say we buy our fair maiden’s freedom? It is terribly difficult to find subjects that stay still long enough for me to finish a sketch. I would consider it a fair exchange.”

“You would buy her anyway.”

The man simply grinned and woke the merchant with a loud cough. He didn’t know the first thing about handling a stressed sparrowhawk, nor did the merchant, and Altaïr was left to roll his eyes and tie a leather glove around his wrist with a string. He sat on an overturned empty barrel, arm slowly tiring as it supported the calming hawk. He stroked her breast and slowly worked the tangled ties of the jess from her legs. The artist sketched them both, seemingly uncaring of how he’d been overcharged and it took all of both their gold to make the merchant agree to part with the hawk.

Finally, Altaïr plucked the hood off and golden eyes blinked with uncertainty at the sudden freedom. 

“Who are you, Messere?” Altaïr asked as the hawk stared at him. She took one step up his arm before glancing down to see where the leather stopped and his soft, vulnerable flesh began. She continued to glow with importance, and the artist burned blue and soothing. But he was not an Assassin. The man didn’t have the sharp edge necessary to go for the kill. It was not a bad thing. 

“Did I not introduce myself? I apologize. I am Leonardo di Vinci. May I ask your name,  _ passerotto?” _

“Federico!” Mother’s terrified shout was a lance to the heart as she came running toward him. The hawk,  _ Maria _ , launched herself skyward.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Kinks? Nothing explicit, but it's part of a courtesan's job so...?

Her name had not always been Milana, though it was the name she gave when Madame Cosima handed her a contract and with agonizing slowness walked her illiterate fingers through the letters of her new name. M-I-L-A-N-A. After, once she had been washed and fed and shown where she could sleep if she was not with a patron, she had held a thin stick of kindling between her fingers and practiced the shapes until her hand ached.

It wasn’t the name her parents had given her, no, but it was a piece of a childhood that she refused to forget. A very small girl once promised her father she’d marry a rich man from the city and go to live in his palazzo in Milan. Florence was no Milan, and Mughetto was no proper palazzo, but it had become home all the same.

So Milana she would be, Milana she was, and in Mughetto she could pretend that was all she had ever been. Because that, Madame Cosima had explained before the ink on her contract had dried, is what sets Mughetto apart. _La fantasia. We let men pretend, for however long their coin lasts, that they are someone else. That we are whoever they want us to be. And when it is time to wake up they can leave unburdened and at peace, knowing that what happens in these walls will never leave it._

It had been alarming, at first, to discover the strange turns and depths mens desires could take. She’d not yet been twenty when she started, and her ideas of what a courtesan -a whore in prettier dress- did for her daily bread were straightforward. 

She was a quick learner.

Some men preferred to be taken as a woman. Some men had tastes that their wives refused to entertain, and so long as the whip did not draw blood and all agreements adhere to Madame Cosima would not break any fingers. A few did not desire sex at all, but simply came to spend an evening with a beautiful woman and bottle of wine so that they would _be seen_ doing so. The garden grew dreams, and who were they to deny one over another? 

Federico had been a lovely young man. There had been a sharp impishness to him and it was nice to pretend, when he ran his hands through her hair, that there was something deeper between them. He had hardly ever asked for anyone but Milana of the Golden Hair. And, oh, he did like to _bite._ To leave kisses that lingered like dark promises after he vanished out the window into the still quiet morning.

Federico Auditore always did leave by crawling out of the window, which was strange but no stranger than seeing a man sipping wine in the parlor while his _pregnant wife_ retained the attentions of three courtesans upstairs.

Milana’s own pregnancy had been a surprise. She took the tea as did everyone else when her blood was late, and she never felt _ill_ at breakfast the way her own mother had often been, and yet her cheeks rounded and her belly soon swelled and she had never thought faster in her life than when she argued with Madame Cosima on her child’s fate. The Auditore were nobility, of sorts, and wealthy. Bankers. Federico would accept his bastard, would _pay_ for the privilege, even. He was a good boy. A good man.

Her imp’s character had seeded itself in her mind with every playful smile, every jealous glint of teeth when he arrived to see her enticing another patron, every gasp as he lay back on the bed and held her hips as she chased her own joy. He wouldn’t have seen her child as a burden, but a _gift._ And perhaps she herself, though never a proper wife, would find herself living in palazzo Auditore as her child-self so often boasted. 

None of them could have known what would happen. What had happened.

And so it was that her breath clogged her throat as a new patron entered Mughetto’s parlor, the shadows cast by his white hood blurring his features into painful familiarity. He lowered his hood and flicked the tail of his hair back like a horse. The man was beautiful. His smile as smooth as his clean-shaven face, but lacked the sharp curve she’d felt so often against her own skin.

The _Assassino._

“That is a Medici cloak!” Frances hissed, lifting off the chaise she’d claimed with an excited flush to her cheeks. So it was. The rich red velvet was unmistakable. Only a fool with more wealth than sense would wear such a thing in the open… or someone who truly had the backing of the Masters of Florence. 

Red and gold. Blood and Power.

Milana shared a look with the dark haired girl and together they stalked toward the assassin. At their action those few patrons in the parlor that had become _unsettled_ at the sight of the known murderer relaxed back into the ministrations of their chosen girls. 

“Signor Ezio,” Frances calls with her sweet, demure smile a mirror to Milana’s own. Her dress is the sheerest of silks and clings to her waist, her legs, like a ripple of water when she walks. “Might I take your cloak? It is terribly warm this evening.”

Frances slides her fingers up and over his shoulders. The assassin makes some sort of noise in his throat, as earthy as anything, and Milana shivers as she joins her sister. The lamps catch the trinkets in her hair, glittering like gems. 

“What brings you to Mughetto, Messere?” Milana asks, pitching her voice soft enough that he naturally leans toward her and catches the scent of her perfumes. A deep breath has her chest heave invitingly while Frances takes the Medici cloak to a wardrobe. Strangely, he seems even more intimidating without it. “What can we do for… to? You?” 

He does not share his brother’s eyes.

It is her own son’s, a shade of brown so light she’d been tempted to call it gold, that drink her in. But no, that is not right either, for even as he takes her hand and bows over it, kissing it, she can see it was a trick of the fire light. Not Federico’s. Either of them. “Anything you like, Madonna…”

She giggles, and his lips tickle her all the way to her elbow before he looks up, grinning. _That_ is Federico’s grin. The one he gave just for her. 

“Alas, I had hoped to meet a friend this evening, but his home was shuttered. I have found myself alone, and lonely.”

“How tragic.” Frances says, returning, pressing herself to Milana’s side. Her blue eyes sparkle and the lock on the assassin’s own. “I would be more than happy to be your friend.” 

Milana touches the hand that he kissed to her own painted lips, and flutters her eyes. “The best of friends. Who share… _everything_.” 

He opens his arms in welcome, in _friendship_ , and together they lead the man up the stairs to a room with one of the bigger beds. She signals behind her back for the most expensive wine in the cellar. If he works for the Medici he can afford it.

They sell dreams to their clients; delightful fantasies to lighten the heart -and the purse- of those that come through the door.

Would it be so wrong to have a dream of her own, for one night?


	8. Chapter Seven 1/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Dubcon.
> 
> Terrorizing Duccio is going to be a family tradition.

Gianna was in charge of the kitchen today, her monthly blood flowing full force, and while unlike Amara she trusted him with more than wiping down surfaces and fetching wood the woman wouldn’t let him anywhere near the knives. All the ingredients he used were prepared by others or only required the most basic of tools. Case in point, the mortar and pestle. It was far bigger, roughly the size of his head, and far fancier than the small set he’d carried as an Assassin for mixing poisons and medicines on the road. The bronze bowl was simply, for the time, decorated with evenly spaced greek columns reaching to the lip. 

Altaïr had to use both hands to grip the matching club as he crushed together salt and pine nuts, the first step in making a new batch of pesto. Even standing on an overturned bucket left him a few inches too short to comfortably reach both the table _and_ the large mortar sitting upon it. He could have, he supposed, dragged the thing onto the floor and do his work in a corner but the idea made his nose wrinkle. Better to strain the tips of his toes than risk getting spare feathers or dirt in his food.

Also less risk of getting stepped on by gossiping flowers. Who had been mentioning the patronage of an _assassino_ of late. _Il_ _Assassino_ , going by the delighted whispers, which was odd. He was apparently a not uncommon sight at La Rosa Colta, and his appearance at Mughetto had been an unexpected boost to both their coffers and reputation.

Altaïr couldn’t quite put what he felt into words. He needed more information, and his mother had been one of three that entertained the man. Was he an Assassin, or just an unusually skilled killer? Did he even understand the Creed, if he was so careless in his kills his likeness could be put to paper? 

The former Mentor of the Brotherhood reached for the bowl of stripped garlic and tossed a few cloves into the mortar, adding to the pungent mixture of mouth-watering spices in his little corner of the kitchen. The term morning was a bit of a misnomer in Mughetto. With such late nights, very few rose from their beds before the sun hit its zenith. Those that did were those flowers assigned kitchen duties for the week, and Altaïr. Though he rarely lingered very long in the kitchens.

There was only so much a child of nearly five, by his mother’s reckoning, could do.

Altaïr raised the pestle and brought it down with intent. Raise, lower. Raise, lower. His miniature mace scraped against the sides of his bowl with a protesting screech as he captured the mush of salt-pine-garlic that had tried to escape his attack. It had all pressed together into a chunky, too-dry paste of too-pale brown, but enough basil and olive oil would see it as smooth and pretty as mother’s dresses.

Gianna groaned audibly from where she sat on a bare wooden stool near the cookfire supervising the day’s work. One hand pressed to her side while the other held a long stirring spoon in a white knuckled grip. Altaïr glanced up, pausing with his hand full of fresh basil leaves. Gianna’s hair, normally a rich dark brown kept braided with colorful, eye catching ribbons, was hidden beneath a square cloth as she worked. A line of sweat glimmered where fabric met forehead though he couldn’t be sure if it was from fever or the heat of the fire.

The flower was terribly close to the open flame, moving between the various bubbling pots suspended above it as she was.

Altaïr clapped his hands over the mortar to rid himself of little bits of basil that had decided to stick to his skin and hopped off his bucket. He navigated around the others at work, scowling and slapping away the giggling hands that tried to pat his head, headed for the pantry. Kept as fully stocked as was practical, the storage room was of a size with the one he and mother shared and was actually the first door that could be reached from the back servants’ entrance. 

No one wanted to see a dried, cured pig’s leg getting carried through the parlor, after all.

Lacking a door, the pantry was unguarded as usual and Altaïr began pushing aside sacks of dried pasta and root vegetables. He _knew_ they had ginger. It had been used in a soup just last month. But that wasn’t it’s only use, and even if it was expensive he didn’t need that much for a weak tea.

Altaïr froze as the sound of the back door rattling before swinging open reached him. He swung his head toward the sound and let the pantry fade to shades of gray. He crept to the doorway -while absently noting the tiny patch of gold sitting high out of reach on a shelf, mocking him- and crouched down, listening to heaving breaths and collective gasps.

Gianna’s footsteps were not soft. Nor was her voice. “Sienna! Where have you been? What happened to you?”

Gianna was the palest of blues, an ally, but not one that would take overt action. Sienna’s steady sea of loyalty normally would have overpowered the other woman’s and made her positively white in comparison. Normally.

“I’m sorry.” Sienna said, clutching her dress to her chest so that it wouldn’t fall off and leave her completely exposed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I’m sorry.”

Her fellow brunette cupped her by the chin and raised Sienna’s tear stained face to look at her. _“What. Happened.”_

“I. I met a man. I should have demanded payment first. I know this. But he seemed so _nice_.” 

“A man did this to you? Did he rape you?”

“No! It was my fault I should have-”

“You should nothing! He is a man. We will need to tell Madame-”

“He did not penetrate me! I am not _that_ stupid. He had a nice smile, and fine clothes, and I know I should not have left the others but…”

She would need a new dress. The pink silk had ripped at some point, beyond even what a little lace or embroidery could hide. Her feet were bare, shoes lost in her flight from whatever _barbarian_ had tricked her into his bed. Loose strands of messy hair stuck to her neck and chest with telling stubbornness.

Altaïr’s fingers ached, and he loosened his grip on the pantry door frame with a slow exhale.

“..he said he wanted to be sure of Mughetto’s reputation, so I sucked his cock. I didn’t let him finish in the street, so we went to his palazzo. It was nice. And pretty. Said his father was on a trading trip and it was just him and the servants. That we had the run of the place, and could do whatever.

“He wanted to, to put his _pene_ in my _culo_ and I, you know I don’t like that.”

Gianna scowled as Sienna took a moment to collect herself. The older woman turned back down the hall to the kitchen, where wide eyed flowers were watching. She gestured rudely with her spoon. “Get back to work!”

Sienna’s shoulder’s slumped, “When I brought up payment, he said, he said he would never pay for such a lack-luster fuck and that I should be grateful he let me taste true nobility. That _I_ should have paid _him_ for the privilege and, and…” 

Gianna reached forward and tucked Sienna’s head into her neck. Rice dripped from the cooling spoon to the floor, and no one cared. “Shh. Shh. You are home now. Clean yourself up, I will have the hip-bath filled and you can borrow Amara’s spare dress for tonight. But first, what was the name of this two-legged toad?”

Big, wet brown eyes blinked in confusion. “I, I should not say. Madame Cosima says-”

Gianna leaned back and trailed a finger along Sienna’s jawline. “If he did not pay, he is not your patron. You owe him nothing. Least of all discretion.”

Big brown, wet eyes blinked with uncertainty. The younger girl gave another sniffle and whispered, “Duccio. His name is Duccio de Luca.”

Altaïr waited in the shadows for his friend to make her way upstairs. He quietly resumed his work on the pesto, turning the name of the debtor over in his head as he considered.

If he put a little more force than usual as he brought the pestle down, well, he was just being thorough.


	9. Chapter Seven 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, uh, this chapter kinda exploded from 'Altaïr is a creepy child haunting Duccio' to 'LET'S WORLDBUILD'. Muse is laughing at me, I swear.
> 
> There be OC's ahead. Though they won't stick around for long.

The moon was high when a small figure that barely came up to his mother’s hips on tip-toe slipped out the back door of Mughetto. Behind him the lights in the brothel windows burned merrily, letting those few that were out and about know that custom was still very much welcomed. As the door swung shut the faint sounds of cooking pots being put away and the even fainter sounds of laughter and a lute being lazily strummed cut off entirely. 

Timing, as always, was the key.

Altaïr padded to the dark corner where the wall that separated Mughetto’s small patio from the streets of Florence intersected with the brothel itself. Tucked in the corner behind a rain barrel was a rough brown bundle rightfully seized from an obnoxious boy who’d had the gall to use the word _whoreson_ like being born was a sin in itself, contrary to his own prophet’s teachings. Really, the brat should be grateful all Altaïr had done was bloody his nose instead of breaking it.

Replacing the loose linen shirt he usually wore, Altaïr pulled the modified cassock over his head. It had been cut for a bigger child, and the now split hems dragged more than a bit, but as Mother often pointed out with most of his clothes that just meant he could grow into it. He wrapped his customary red shawl back around his waist, paused to tug on the dark brown wool so that it wasn’t completely trailing through the dirt, and finished cinching the silk with a simple knot. 

Pulling a second shawl off the drying line and wrapping it around his head completed the disguise. It wouldn’t do to be recognized and so endanger mother. After all, using the enemies’ uncertainty as both sword and shield was the first lesson assassin’s learned. Assassins, as a rule, were not meant to be so recognizable as to be _predictable_. 

Altaïr glanced behind him to and into the brothel. No alarm had been raised; he was a quiet child by nature, and by a child’s nature it was late. 

Altaïr yawned.

He shrugged a coil of rope over his shoulder and clambered up a trellis that had been consumed over the years until it was more flower than frame. Old growth pricked at hands that lacked the hard earned callouses of experience. With a grunt Altaïr pulled himself over and onto the brothel’s roof.

Though his mother was currently entertaining Messere Rossi, there was no way to know how long that would last. Was she going to leave the luxurious feather bed the man was bouncing her on to wish Altaïr sweet dreams? Or would she spend the night warming that feather bed as she fell asleep waiting for her client to do the same? Mother had been sleeping deeper of late, and it had fallen upon Altaïr to wake her.

He hoped that didn’t mean she had contracted some illness. 

Altaïr began running. 

* * *

Bruno was an orphan. He hadn’t always been an orphan, he was sure, because he vaguely remembered a time when he wasn’t hungry. He remembers shouting, and following a woman who may have been his mother around, but something happened and now he was alone and hungry all the time. It had been that way for years, seemed like.

He’d thought about joining one of the churches. The city had a lot of them, and rich people always felt better about themselves when they could show other rich people how much wealth they didn’t need. It was a vir-tu, or something. And he could learn how to pray. Bruno was good at remembering things; he could recite whole conversations he’d overheard. A bit of church-chant would be a bargain for a roof over his head and food in his belly.

Only, the churches were so _clean._ And Bruno wasn’t. He’d dunked his head in the river half a dozen times and _still_ his scalp itched. And all the lords and ladies in their respectability and clean hands and how they never touched -God help you if you touched them, because the guards wouldn’t- a poor soul direct but put coins in the bowl, they _knew._ The priests and the friars and the nuns in their closed little cloy-stares all knew.

Worse than the Savior’s blank stare as he judged from his Cross, that. Worse enough to make Bruno hug himself and pretend in the early hours of the morning it was the woman’s arms. Or the bless-ed virgin’s. She looked kinder than her son, anyway, in all the pictures he’d seen. In the sculptures. He didn’t mind praying to her, and she probably didn’t mind that he wasn’t very good at it.

Or that he wasn’t a very good person himself, sometimes.

Bruno never starved, exactly, but he didn’t always get enough coins in his bowl to keep him warm and _Capo Vino_ had always been very clear on what would happen if he did not pay for the space he took when there were plenty of others that would. Sometimes, he did things that were bad or something very close to it. Like tonight. 

_“Buona sera.”_ A soft, dreadingly familiar voice said from behind and Bruno near leapt out of his skin. He swallowed back a scream and pasted on a smile as he turned to his imp-loy-ier. The boy was younger than him, smaller than him, but he had eyes that were both better and worse than the people at the church.

They were eyes didn’t so much as see Bruno as see through him. And they glowed, by God, they _glowed._

The boy, who had never bothered to give a name and after the beating he gave Pietro only a fool would ask, held out a small sack formed from the tied together ends of a threadbare scrap of cloth. Mouth watering, Bruno took it.

If nothing else, it was probably warm in hell. That was the impression he’d gotten from the priests.

The boy slipped his hands into the gaping sleeves of his stolen robe, every inch a devil in disguise, and skinny shoulders trembling as he caught his own breath. Bruno undid the sack and stuffed a wedge of cheese into his mouth. It was so _soft._ Unlike the dried, hard scraps he usually found. He glanced away from his payment to see that terrible gaze turned on the palazzo across the street.

“Duccio’s still there, and his papa, too, I think. An older man, anyway. Arrived yesterday. There was a fight? Shouts, certainly, the servants didn’t seem surprised, though. Duccio’s be-trow-thall is broken off and his papa is mad.”

The corners of soft, pink, plush lips ups curled upward. It would have been a nice smile, cute even, if it didn’t remind Bruno so much of a cat pinning a beetle under its paws.

* * *

Altaïr would have preferred hempen rope, but the silk was what he had available and so the silk would have to do. The rope, used in the entertainment of those patrons that liked the play of restraint, would hopefully not be missed before he had a chance to return it to Madame Cosima’s study. 

Above Maria circled, crying her triumph, and Altaïr grunted as the wide eyed boy finished his report around a throat full of bread. His description of the household confirmed what his own eyes were telling him, if in more detail. Altaïr hurried across the moonlight street and sidled around the de Luca palazzo until he came to a window left open to allow the cooler night air in. There were enough cracks and edges to the building that if he was at his full growth the rope would be unnecessary.

Determinedly, Altaïr slung the silk off his shoulder and began swinging one knotted end he’d had the presence of mind to dunk in rainwater. The weighted end spun in the air, building speed until it was released to sail up and hook around the small balcony’s railing. A quick tug to be sure it was secure and Altaïr began to climb.

This was not his first infiltration of the palazzo; his first being what netted him his own knives, though he was careful to not bring them into the garden where mother might find them.

Hand over hand, muscles already strained from the run across the rooftops protested as his palms sweat. Maria watched, blood dripping from the kill in her talons, head tilted in curiosity until Altaïr managed to brace one foot against the wall and push himself up to throw one leg over stonework at Duccio’s window.

The man slept in his bed, breath pungent with wine and prone body the sickly yellow of piss, of a target, but as much of a _stronzo_ as he was Altaïr couldn’t quite justify his death. Perhaps in Altaïr’s youth, his true youth, it would have been enough. He’d killed without thought then, and simply asking a question or not answering one had been cause for his blade to strike. There were other ways to voice displeasure, though, and Altaïr was nothing if not a teacher.

He untangled the rope from itself, neatly coiled it back over his shoulder, and slid soundlessly into the bedroom. He accepted the dead rabbit from Maria’s claws with a soft, “ _Shukran._ ”

It was still warm; the fur soft.

Altaïr idly stroked the corpse as he considered the swollen eyes and irritated skin of his… student. A rose had many properties, some not obvious at first blush. Lovely in both sight and scent, yes. Teas made from the plant were used to treat inflammation and the pains of age. And yet, as any true doctor knew, a cure was just a poison in a controlled dose.

The dried fruit of the flower had been simple to harvest and prepare, literal child’s play, as most were only interested in the velvety-soft petals for their baths and perfumes. Sprinkling the powder derived from the rose hips in Duccio de Luca’s bedding, in his clothes, in the very brush he used for his hair ensured an unrelenting, unseen assault. Not until he washed everything would it stop, and by then the rumors of his disease as sown by the flowers of Mughetto in spiteful revenge would be cemented. 

If Duccio had any savvy at all he would have kept his betrothal to Contessina de Pazzi, even if her family was currently something like political lepers she was still the niece of Lorenzo de Medici. Short sighted idiot. Running him out of the city was a kindness.

It was the only one he’d ever get from Altaïr.

Drawing a knife, one that one resided in a small library on the floor below, Altaïr held the rabbit over the bed and cut the neck open. Blood, warm and thick, fell out like a brief but heavy rain. Duccio slapped at his own face as droplets landed on it. Maria hopped from a table to a chair, head up and mouth begging, wings flapping for attention. Snorting, Altaïr made a second cut and with his fingers and removed a heart no bigger than his thumb. He tossed it to the hawk who happily snapped it out of the air.

Altaïr wiped the worst of the blood off on his robe, the dark brown wool would hide it, and set the rabbit aside. He turned the knife in his hands. Duccio de Luca was an idiot. He probably never thought of Sienna except for a story he might tell his equally deplorable friends about the whore he didn’t pay. He’d probably made it sound like he was so good with his undersized _pene_ she refused payment.

Altaïr tied a scrap of Sienna’s old dress around the handle of the knife, pink oddly cheerful against the gore. Maybe the man would remember. Maybe he wouldn’t. It would certainly give his _father_ some questions to ask. The mattress made a little _pfft_ sound as Altaïr drove the blade to the hilt beside Duccio’s head. 

The Assassin turned to the door, clucking his tongue for Maria and snatching up the bloody rabbit as he went. He carefully fed a few more organs to the bird. At the door he pulled his hand inside his sleeve, letting the oversized clothing drape and serve as a barrier between him and the door handle. Let them wonder where the blood came from, and where it went. 

He had a few more things to do before he was done. Duccio de Luca would regret every one. 

* * *

Bruno was a good kid, if kinda stupid, Stefano di Roma thought. Only stupid people tried to cheat _Il Vino_ , because cheating the Wine Maker meant you cheated the Fox. And if you cheated the Fox? 

Well, some people chose to wear hoods, and some people had hoods thrown upon them. The second kind tended to vanish into the Arno if the Assassin didn’t make an example, first.

It kinda made one miss Giovanni. The man had been frightening, in his way, but he was _quiet_. He always gave you a chance to confess, to repent, to make good on your embezzlement -and he was very, very good at finding out about embezzlement- over tea and torrone. The man had had the patience of a saint and the interrogation skills of a confessor.

A violent confessor.

Ezio Auditore, however, was not quiet in the least. Hopefully Antonio would be able to teach the man more _refined_ methods of recompense _._ Giovanni had never made his kills so _public._ Stefano hoped they weren’t going to have to make an example of Bruno. He really was a good kid. 

Stefano jogged to a stop as his partner caught up. The former courtesan was new to a thief’s work and though she had no equal on firm earth the red roofs of Florence were a different beast altogether. Her chest heaved delightfully as she sucked in air, untying the cloth around her neck as she mopped up sweat. Simone inched to the edge of the roof and looked down into a familiar narrow street. She hissed.

“That is a boy! A child!”

“A child that thinks he’s man, and a man must pay his dues.” 

“A child that is playing at manhood, perhaps.”

“Playing is the first step to putting it into practice.” Stefano argued back with a lecherous smirk, and received a disgusted grimace in reply. “Better we settle this now, before someone else has need to.”

The wine that _Il Vino_ made when his authority over crime in Santa Croce quarter was put to question was unfit for consumption. Simone nodded, grim. 

Stefano took a deep breath. “ _Buon giorno, amico mio!_ ” 

The boy’s face whipped up, a circle of ghost white in the shadows. Startled crumbs fell from his mouth. “S-Stefano, Ser, what are you doing here?”

The thief swung himself off an overhang, caught his fingers on a bit of decorative molding, and dropped to the street. He shook his finger at the boy. “Tsk-tsk, Bruno. You haven’t been begging in San Lorenzo for nigh on a week. We were worried about you, only, to find you here? Watching the home of nobility? What are you planning, boy? _Steal_ my _job_ , were you?” 

“Never!” The skinny boy clutched a parcel to his chest and a grape fell out, rolling along the dirt till it stopped at Stefano’s boot. He crushed it with a smile. “I, I was asked to watch it, is all. I wasn’t going to do anything!”

“Oh?”

Simone put a hand on his arm, stepping forward with a gentleness that had pried secrets out of the _hardest_ of men. “Bruno, is it? Who asked you to watch the palazzo, hmm?”

The boy chewed his lip, eyes on his shoes. “I don’t know.”

“This is very important, Messere Bruno. If someone asked you to watch it, it had to be for a reason. A dangerous reason, maybe.”

Bruno shook his head, greasy hair whipping back and forth. “I. Don’t. Know. He’s little, younger than me, but he, he beat up Pietro when he was saying mean things about, about the _girls_ ,” watery eyes flicked up at Simone as he stressed the word before darting back down. “So when he told me to watch the house, I didn’t ask questions. He’s been giving me food.”

Bruno mustered enough courage to glare up at Stefano. “We don’t owe dues for _food._ That’s the rule. _La Volpe_ said.”

“You expect me to believe-” Stefano started, only to stop as the thin sleeve of his shirt proved to be no protection to the nails that dug into his flesh. “-what?!”

And then he saw the dwarf. 

* * *

Altaïr chose not to run as he made his way back to his mother. His eyes watered as he fought back a yawn. The last thing he needed was a slip that would leave him a broken puppet on the street. Despite the exhaustion that weighed on his limbs like very heavy things, Altaïr felt a warm satisfaction buoy him. His pouches were full of silver, his hands were covered in blood, and once morning dawned all would be right with his world.

 _“Ciao!”_ A false falsetto called out, and Altaïr refused to acknowledge it until he finished crossing a rope bridging the rooftops. It was conveniently placed, after all, and he wondered who had done it. Who was maintaining the things. “What’s the rush, little man! Slow down.”

He was surrounded.

A yawn escaped.

Altaïr he turned to his pursuers and flicked his gaze between dull and vibrant. Strange colors, a swirling miasma of white and blue that leeched the threat from them till it was a pale, aching pink. In the dim light of the pre-dawn the man’s wide-eyed face looked as gray as his clothes.

Hmm?

Altaïr knew there was nothing behind him but a woman in thief's garb. He knew from experience how startling that could be, but her sex was obvious in the way her vest hugged her chest even if she did hide her hair under an ugly little cap. It wasn’t as if she’d suddenly switched places with another through foul sorcery.

His wife had taken great delight in telling their boys the story of their meeting. A never ending lesson in humility, that.

The vagabond managed to gather his courage. “ _Piccolo._ This quarter falls under the eye of _Il Vino_. Stealing without his permission is strictly forbidden.” 

“You are not my _mama_.” Altaïr frowned, tiredness giving way for anger. Somehow, the man went paler. Altaïr barely noticed the blade fitting his palm or the blood that had rubbed onto it from his own clothes. “And I did not _steal_ anything.”

Merely took what was owed.

“Is that so?” The woman called, circling around to keep her eyes on Altaïr’s knife. Maria mirrored her movements in the sky, watchful. “Well, we wouldn’t want to overstep. Just some confusion, I’m sure. Stefano, _Stefano.”_

Whatever internal conflict they had going, Altaïr didn’t care. He wanted sleep. Darting between them he launched himself off the roof and enjoyed the sensation of falling as the wind kept the shouted curses from his ears. 

* * *

_“Piccolo. Pii-Co-Lo._ It is time to wake, _amore mio_.” Milana’s voice was soft and full of humor as she knelt beside the bed. Folding her arms on the pallet she watched her boy’s face. She rarely got to see him so relaxed, cute little rosebud mouth hanging open in sleep. Her little Federico usually woke with the sun, like a most adorable monster, and to see him linger now…

Suddenly worried, Milana reached out and pressed her hand against his forehead. He felt a bit clammy, but not like he had a fever. Should she call for a doctor? Probably not. They were expensive, and her boy didn’t seem ill. Simply tired. Sienna could wake Mughetto with tales of spirits leaving gold under her pillow all she liked, but Milana had plenty of ghosts and not a one of them could help her.

The blonde carefully crawled over her sleeping child and settled atop the blanket beside him. She pulled him close, and felt her own eyes droop as he made little noises at the disturbance, rolling in her arms and pressing his face to her chest. Another hour or two wouldn’t hurt. She could dress quickly when she needed to.

She dreamed of a boy with an impish smile and the saddest eyes.


	10. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we approach the End of the Beginning.
> 
> Warning for discussions of abortion and a narrowly missed miscarriage. Also bad medicine is bad.

E’Lisa was a woman with hair so fine a black it would not brown. According to her own mother, who had passed away when E’Lisa was only a few years older than Altaïr, they had inherited it from her father, E’Lisa’s grandfather. It was the only thing they inherited from the man, other than their own brand of superstition. It was why, despite disliking Altaïr, instead of whispering of how he was cursed behind his mother’s back she simply stated that he was unlucky and did her best to ignore him those days of shared kitchen duties.

Which made it all the stranger that she was the one Altaïr sat with, now, after the black robed doctor banished him from the room to examine his mother. 

They were supposed to be quiet. The sun had not yet risen when he woke to his mother’s trembling, her face cool to touch but damp and pained, drops of blood on her fingers, and he’d run to wake the Madame before he could even register the wetness spilling down his own cheeks. He pressed his back into the wall and wiped at the tear tracks with the sleeve of his shirt. It had been a man’s shirt, once, left behind as a patron made a hasty retreat and never returned. Men yet lingered in the garden, dreaming the dreams of the drunk and sated, and waking them would ruin that. They were supposed to be quiet.

Altaïr’s running had drawn E’Lisa from her client’s bed, and so she wasn’t wearing her dress. She was barely wearing anything, actually, but she’d joined his vigil on the floor. She put a delicate hand on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything, not one word, they were supposed to be quiet.

Altaïr felt his hackles rise and ducked his head, chin on knees. He felt like his bones were made of blades; cold, sharp angles scraping against his skin wanting to lash out. 

The hand left.

She did not.

Altaïr stared past the door, ignoring the woman at his side, and let words and whimpers formerly muffled by wood and distance resolve into daunting clarity. There were three in the room. His mother curled on the bed squeezing a pillow, the doctor prodding at her, and Madame Cosima in a long nightgown observing it all with a blank, stony expression.

“-very important, Madonna. You are certain you bled?” The doctor was asking as he poked around his mother's belly.

“Yes!” His mother hissed, anger sparking through her, and despite her pain she slapped at the hands touching her. _“I bled._ Until last week, so I took the tea.”

Altaïr’s mother hated the tea and took every excuse she could to avoid it. A day or two of blood was still blood, and a drop of honey in piss didn’t stop it from being piss.

“Tea?” The doctor turned in askance to Madame Cosima. Expressions were lost in the world of intent, but they were also less informative than the pulse of dark blue that snaked through the Madame’s body like a possessive vine.

“Pennyroyal.” The Madame said. “My girls take it only when they’re off cycle. I’m given to understand consistent use may cause issues.”

“A wise decision. However in this case I’m afraid… if you are certain she’s-”

Madame Cosima scowled and straitened her back. She was tall for a woman. “We’re certain. Some of my girls bleed less, others more, a few hardly ever. I keep close record of all.”

“Then I can only conclude that Madonna Milana is with child and has been for some time.”

“ _Che?_ ” His mother stopped strangling the pillow. The floor was cold and hard beneath Altaïr. “But, I bled.”

The man sighed and made a wobbly gesture with his hand. “I can think of no other reason for the pain. Menses, while unusual, is not unheard of to continue in lesser degrees throughout pregnancy. It is the body’s humors naturally balancing out to accommodate the growing child, you see, some spillover is necessary. I myself have had to bleed several women as their time came, the stress of the upcoming birth proving too much for them. In a way your body has been doing my job for me!”

“If it is so normal,” Madame Cosima killed the doctor’s cheer with uncompromising coldness. “Then why is she in so much pain? Can you not stop it?”

“Certainly, putting the child aside would be the simplest solution, and though I am unsure of how far along it is the tea would not be causing so much pain if it wasn’t well rooted. Stop drinking the tea. The dose of pennyroyal required to, ah, wither the vine as it were would be dangerously high and only cause her more pain. I would like to consult with my colleagues on a safer alternative if that is your choice.”

“No.” Altaïr felt himself shiver with the effort of holding himself still his mother shook her head. Her entire body swayed with the motion. “No.”

“Then I suggest complete bed rest until the pain stops, and several days after. You need to let your womb settle. But I must stress that finishing the process that the tea started truly would be safest for _you_ Madonna.”

“Little Federico hid himself from us, too.” The Madame said with a hint of dark amusement. “We will discuss this in the morning, Milana. Come, _dottore_ , allow me to show you out.”

Altaïr watched them leave, the skirt of Madame Cosima’s nightgown flicking over his toes. He stood on coltish legs as E’Lisa took his arm but pulled away before she could lead him back to his mother. The Assassin tracked his targets, slipping quietly down the stairs as they paused in the now empty parlor. The Madame was pouring a glass of wine from a forgotten wine bottle, offering it to the man as he set his bag on a low table.

 _“Grazie.”_

“Tell me, what will happen if she keeps the child?”

The doctor swirled his wine. “Nothing good, I imagine, but it is difficult to know for sure without knowing when the child was conceived. She has expressed no other symptoms of pregnancy?”

“She was the same with Federico. No cravings. No illness. No tenderness. If her other appetite has increased she’s well enough sated for it to go unnoticed. My girls know very much what happens if they feel unwell and do not tell me.”

Altaïr knew, too. The contract was ended and they were released without any severance pay at all.

“If the child has not yet quickened there is a good chance it can still be removed, with minimal harm to the mother. Asafoetida, perhaps? Quite good in soups. But after? Even if Madonna Milana delivers safely the child may have already been damaged from the tea. It would be, cruel, to force such a thing into the world.”

He meant well, Altaïr could _see_ he meant well, but it didn’t stop the urge that pulsed through him to strangle the man. Worse, he could see Madame Cosima was considering it. The way her attention caught on the word soups and flecks something Altaïr couldn’t define emerged in the darkening, almost black blue of herself proved it.

“I see. Thank you. I shall send your payment tomorrow, when we’ve all had rest and clearer heads.” She opened the door, gesturing to the empty streets.

Altaïr numbly climbed the stairs and trailed his fingers along the wall as he made his way back to his mother. She was hurting, and there was sweat on her brow, but there was also a wobbly smile of wonder on her face as she took him in her arms. Her heart was a drum in his ears, quick but steady.

“You’re going to be brother, _Piccolo.”_

He was, wasn’t he? A brother. He’d had brothers before, but he’d never been a brother.

His mother’s cheek rubbed against the top of his head.

“And I know exactly what name to give him. Or her! God’s angels have protected us, kept them safe inside me, so I will honor that. Ah!” Mother grimaced as a fresh wave went through her, her arms clamping down around him and holding a little too tight. But that was okay. Mother was keeping him from floating away.

He was going to be a brother. 

His son's voices came in a memory as old and faded as parchment left too long in the sun. Childishly high in the singsong recitation of verses they were too young to truly understand. Never compromise the brotherhood.


	11. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr finally wins the contest of wills and gets a hair cut.

Mother lies in bed for seventeen days and in that time Altaïr spills enough bowls of broth, porridge, and soup to make sitting a chore and see him banished from the kitchens until his mind settles. Her pain fades to little more than the occasional cramp, and during the second week of confinement what might have been healthy fat becomes a distinct curve that is not. 

In that time several arguments were had between the Madame and mother. Altaïr stands as silent witness to it all, presence forgotten as the two women’s emotions rise and logic becomes barbed bullets. Mother wants the baby. Mother wants the baby like a body needs air to live and Madame Cosima can’t fathom it. There are dangers - _there is always risk in childbirth-_ the child itself is likely to be malformed - _God would not send me a child only to damn it-_ they cannot even know who the father is _-Federico is just fine-_ how is a whore to support two children if she cannot work? To the last his mother has no answer but only hard, mulish glares that see the equally hard woman out of the room.

On the morning of the eighteenth day, against the doctor’s recommendations, the beautifully stubborn woman tells Altaïr that she refuses to continue smelling like a pig wallowing in her own filth and pushes past the dark coated man blocking the door. Altaïr trails in her wake, a fish on a hook, and eventually others give in and help because if they don’t mother is going to carry the water buckets herself.

It’s peaceful in the bathing chamber. Shelves line one wall, for clothes and towels and containers of powders, oils, and other sweet smelling things, and mother takes out a familiar glass bottle. It’s slender and ridiculous, and after unwinding the string that keeps the matching cork secured she pours a half a thimble of oil into the bathwater. As the scent rises from the steaming water and permeates the room mother closes her eyes and breathes in, shoulders relaxing. 

Lavender, with just a hint of something citrus. 

She flicks the water with her fingers. “ _Amore mio_ , you first.” 

Altaïr feels his back stiffen, his side aches like a traitor, and shakes his head. “I’m fine, _mama._ I could help you wash your hair?” 

The blonde gives him a knowing grin. “More like you don’t want me to get rid of all those little nests you collect in yours. Arms up.” She pulls off his shirt and Altaïr winces at her gasp, at the too-warm hand grasping his bare shoulder as butterfly wings dance along his exposed ribs. “ _Cosa è successo?!_ ”

He can’t look at her. “I didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”

A true statement that implied a lot, but not that he started the fight or that he ended it. Which he did. The flowers work hard for their coin, and the level of gall in snatching a purse from one's _hand_ as she counted out the coins necessary for Altaïr to fetch her and her sisters snacks demanded swift answer. Even Amara had softened and cooed when he returned, messy and bruised but with the stolen purse intact, and fed him some of her own honey-nut roll.

Though it could have been different. He’d acted as a novice in truth, impulse instead of thought fueling his pursuit, and if not for his partner winging in when she did and striking at the third thief’s eyes he would have suffered worse than a good kick.

“I’m not mad, Federico.” Mother’s hands are silk wrapped steel, her thumb brushing his bottom lip as she makes their eyes meet. “You are so, _so_ much like your father.”

The only thing Altaïr recalled sharing with Umar was skill. And love. In Rashid's brotherhood love was a weakness, a thing for enemies to use against you, but that was just one more lie on a pile of manipulations.

“Did I ever tell you how I met your father?” Mother said while folding their discarded clothes. Soon enough he was in the bath with water cascading over his head. His mother began her assault on his hair. “He was still very much a boy, for all that he insisted he was a man. I’d just finished up with a ser and was escorting him out when this whirling imp bursts through the door as if the devil himself was chasing him. Madame Cosima was of a mind to throw him out, but before she could so much as raise her voice he threw a very, _very_ fat purse at her and grabbed me. I suppose because I was closest.”

His mother giggled. Altaïr twisted in the water, staring at her as she held the comb to her curling mouth. 

“He started stripping his clothes before we even made it to the bed! Just, throwing them every which way, and I don’t think we ever found them all, after. We’d only just started to, ah, lie down when we heard the most terrible shriek. I wanted to say something, but he only kissed me and, hmm. It was nice. Even with the shouting.

“It wasn’t long at all before this Jacopi thug began pounding on the door, and the Madame opened it to show the two of us doing what people come to Mughetto to do. Why, the man’s face was so red! And the city guards he had with him were so embarrassed! They were following a man who had stolen some very important documents, you see, but they never saw his face. And it was very, very obvious why my little imp was so sweaty and out of breath, wasn’t it? 

“Of course it was only after they left and Madame Cosima began counting the coins that we saw the coat-of-arms on the purse he’d paid with. A Jacopi boar!” Mother hummed, tapping her chin with the comb. “He so often came to me with collections of little bruises, getting into scraps, it was why he kept his hair so unfashionably short. Said he didn’t want anyone to grab it.”

She went quiet after that, only the dripping of the water to accompany her very low humming. The fingers brushing over his scalp and warmth of the water acted as well as any lullaby, and Altaïr’s eyes began to droop. He barely noticed the metallic _shft_ of shears as his mother gave up with a soft laugh _._

_“Mio piccolo Federico...”_


	12. Chapter Ten

It shouldn’t be so hot, Milana thinks, not so early in the day. The streets are not half so crowded as they could be, the sun is still struggling its way into the sky, and yet her cheeks feel warm and some enterprising thief has replaced her knees with water. There is a hand at her elbow and the arm wrapping around her waist makes her want to pull away with a scowl, but when she looks it is only the concerned face of Sienna.

“Milana? Should I get a _dottore?”_ It is an honest question, voiced with honest concern, but it makes Milana’s head swim with the added heat of indignation.

She means well. They all mean well, but she knows what the doctor will say and there is only so long a woman can lay abed in sweat dampened sheets, staring at the same four walls, seeing the same familiar faces without wanting to scream. So she swallows the revulsion, along with a bit of sour porridge tickling the back of her throat, and pats the hand on her arm while giving her second best smile. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I just need to rest a bit, in the shade?”

Sienna wobbles in place, dark ringlets swaying, before Federico grabs the both of them by their woolen skirts and begins walking. It’s more of a march, really, her boy ignoring resentful huffs and shaking fists as he plows through the middle of the square, leading them to a stone bench half-hidden in the shadows of a church. There are so many in Florence it takes a moment for her mind to recall which one it is. Her heart skips a beat when she does, and the marble of the building is blessedly cool against her head as she leans against it.

How long ago had it been since Federico lured her to the roof with a mischievous grin and a clinking pouch of silver? How many years since he held the ladder and then complimented her underskirt as she climbed? It had been a miracle none of the laborers found them; a miracle and a sacrilege all in one.

She wouldn’t be surprised if it had been communion wine that he’d stashed under the tarp, too. 

It was... probably not the type of story her son should hear. Not now, anyway, but maybe when he was older and deserved a bit of embarrassment. 

_“Mama?”_ Milana cracks her eyes open at the feel of a little hand on her face. Someone flutters low in her growing belly, and her heart feels like it will burst. “Are you feeling better, _mama?”_

 _“Tanta, grazie.”_ She takes her son’s hand and kisses the fingers, small and rough, wondering what he could possibly be doing in the kitchen to cause such callouses. Was it fighting? It was probably fighting. Perhaps keeping him hidden away for so long had been a mistake; he was a good, sweet boy but he did not light a room with his smile the way his father could. The way his uncle still did. “You know, I think your sibling is hungry. Why don’t you go get us some fruit? I can see a vendor on the other side of the herald.”

Her sweet boy pursed his lips, pouting with heart-melting concern, and Sienna threaded an arm around her own, hooking elbows. “Don’t worry, Federico! We will wait right here, I will not let your mama go anywhere!”

“She is the stone around my neck.”

A smile! A small one, but a smile nonetheless. Milana stifled the desire to coo as her baby boy darted off on his mission. 

* * *

It is early enough in the day that Altaïr is spoiled for choice when he approaches the fruit cart. The woman is doing significant business, wielding a red orange like a weapon as she tries her best to steal custom from the merchant further down. Altaïr knows from experience that the man has better prices, but a poorer selection. In another hour, two if it is a slow day, neither of these things will matter. A single small, silver coin sits like an ember in his palm.

“...Messere?” A mouse drifts from the crowd, scurrying out with papers as dirt stained as her own face in a bundle at her chest. 

A man with a feather in his hat glances down, sneers, and promptly ignores her as he goes back to bargaining for peaches. That’s fine. She wasn’t talking to him, anyway. Altaïr steps to the side to clear a space for the girl. There is a line of snot dripping from her nose that she rubs away with the full length of her forearm, and a trembling that goes through her whole body.

She has a name. Everyone has a name. Altaïr spends a moment treading mental waters before concluding he hasn’t actually met her before. He would remember the freckle like pattern of dirt, if nothing else. “What do you want?”

“I, I heard Bruno saying you wanted, ah, paper.” She flaps the collected sheets at him, and a cursory glance reveals that there are _multiple_ copies of a certain bounty notice in the batch, though several different amounts are listed under the smirking, hooded profile. The cleanest, and presumably newest, version is offering enough florins to buy a house. Two houses.

Altaïr very carefully breaths out and relaxes his grip before he deforms the coin in his hand. The little girl flinches and sniffles. 

Paper was not, actually, what he had asked for when he ran into his sometimes informant. 

“Do you like lemons?” 

“I dunno.” She peeks out over the bundle of paper she’s holding like a shield. “Never had one. I’m not supposed to eat fruit. _Tia_ says it makes you _libidinosa._ ”

That is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “...does she eat lemons?”

An uncertain shrug is his only answer, and the girl steps right up to his back to keep from being bowled over by the sudden influx of market goers. Altaïr starts squeezing lemons between his hands and like a jealous god the woman manning the cart whirls with accusation on her tongue. Altaïr is prepared to fire back, coin held between his fingers like a knife ready to be thrown, but before either of them can start a verbal brawl Altaïr’s mouse squeaks and vanishes as a shadow looms.

“Causing more trouble, boy?” 

“Is this your son, Messere?” 

“No.” Altaïr growls at the question, shifting so that he has a stack of crates at his back instead of a stranger in a dark hood. A lemon won’t kill a man, not unless he gets _creative_ , but no one likes getting beamed in the eye.

The stranger doesn’t miss a beat as he plucks a single gold florin from… somewhere. It was obscene. “My brother’s son tends to wander, I hope he hasn’t caused any trouble?”

“None at all.” Suddenly the merchant woman is all sweetness, accepting the gold with greed and dismissing them from her mind. Altaïr takes the opportunity to grab several more lemons before retreating. The man follows him, lips curving with amusement.

“And where are you going with those, _passerotto?”_ It’s sickeningly sweet, when the hooded man speaks, and the tint of his clothing is just bright enough to blend with the populace while being too dull to be remarkable. The man has no bracers, but Altaïr doesn’t doubt there are blades hidden on his person. The stranger’s stride overtakes Altaïr’s and then it is a choice of running lemons first into the man or trying to walk around him.

That choice is taken from him as the man’s voice goes into a whisper, and there are teeth behind the smiling eyes. What those teeth are doing, Altaïr isn’t sure. “One of my men lost an eye because of you, little demon. I don’t know if I should applaud your skill or be ashamed at my man’s lack thereof.”

Altaïr wishes he had his knife on him, but that is tucked away in the bushes of the garden. He arches a brow instead, feeling the protective glow of golden blue making its way toward them. “He was stupid enough to steal from a woman where everyone could see.”

“ _L'idiota_ wasn’t the one half-blinded.”

“Shoulda picked his friends better, then.”

 _“Amore mio.”_ His mother’s face is flushed, false cheer painted on as Sienna gives an apologetic smile at her side. Mother’s dress is soaked at the collar and the fabric around her belly tight. “We grew worried. Who is this?”

“Ah, Madonna I-”

“I have no idea. He paid for the lemons,” and because Altaïr knows the man isn’t going to try anything drastic in public, not with the care he took to be so forgettable, he gives a smile that hurts his cheeks when he finishes. “ _With_ _gold._ ”

His mother’s smile melts like it was made of wax. “Is that so. _Is that so._ ”

Sienna looks between them all, lost, and Altaïr takes the opportunity to unload his lemons on the young woman. Then he sticks his hand into her basket for the rocks he _knows_ she’s been collecting when mother wasn’t looking.

“I think there has been a misunderstanding, Madonna. Truly, I meant no harm. I see the boy is just as much a trial as his father.” The thief king raises his hands in surrender, expression open, but mother has his scent and she’s been wanting an acceptable target all morning. “The man does like to cause a commotion, does he not?”

“I will kindly ask you not to speak ill of the dead, _ser_.” His mother spits the words, slapping down whatever camaraderie the man was trying to build, and for a brief moment shock paints the unflappable stranger. “And to stay away from my children. Federico! Sienna!”

“ _Si, mama?_ ”

“Milana?”

“We have an appointment with the tailor, do we not?” His mother’s hand is shaking on his shoulder when she pushes him back toward the street. Altaïr twists, looking over his shoulder, but the man is gone.

He keeps Sienna’s rock in a makeshift sling, swinging it like a toy, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the moral of this story is that grown men in suspicious hoods should not approach small children when their mothers are watching. Though to be fair from the way his thieves were talking he didn't expect the 'Demon Child' to be quiet that small.
> 
> La Volpe is going to quickly forget this encounter ever happened.


	13. Chapter Eleven

She’s reached the point in her pregnancy that her feet hurt enough confinement to her bed seems like a blessing. She’s also far enough that, if she compares how her imp’s son grew in her belly she’s almost certain she knows who the father is. She won’t consider Messere Calbrini, he hadn’t managed to seed a child on either of his wives so she doubts in his age he got one on her, but there are one or two other likely candidates. An unmarried banker that comes by Mughetto with a regularity one could set a clock by. An artist’s apprentice that had slunk in, white as a sheet but as determined and cute as anything. Neither of them felt right.

Her baby squirmed inside her as if in agreement.

_Did you hear? They say the Assassino was seen in Venezia! Running right down the middle of the street, brazen as a peacock, a woman in his arms and trailing guards like honey does flies!_

Frances had swooned as she shared the news, cupping her hands under her chin and falling backward into Amara’s disapproving arms. Frances had entertained a merchant recently arrived from Venice the night before, and he had enjoyed hearing himself talk as much as he enjoyed sex. More, perhaps. 

_Molto romantico! Was he stealing her from her husband, you think?_

Gianna’s laughter sounded like a dog’s bark and she made a gesture that could only be done politely in an establishment such as theirs. 

_That white devil stole something, I’m sure._

It had only been the first they heard of Ezio Auditore’s exploits in _La Serenissima._ The people of Florence were eager to hear such tales, and share them, their shoulders straightening and eyes brightening as though a great shadow had passed. The Assassin no longer haunted _their_ rooftops, after all.

He haunted Milana, however, a legacy she was certain was his calming as she rubbed at her swollen stomach. Her lips quirked as she closed her eyes, humming a tune her own mother once sang at night. Ezio had been eager, and courteous, and unlike other men whose ardor could be doused by drink the little brother simply grew more passionate. The man didn’t even seem aware that pulling out was an option, burying himself deep while hands that had killed more men than she could count saw to their pleasure as much as his own.

Milana had on occasion serviced priests, and though they preached against such things on the pulpit more often than not she finished them with her mouth. 

Yes, she was near certain that her little angel’s father was a devil.

And Madame Cosima had all but demanded that she surrender her youngest up to the _Ospedale._ She was no longer suggesting that Milana _remove_ the baby growing in her womb, it was too late for that, but still… 

She could not give her child to a stranger.

Yet, if she remained in Florence, she felt she might not have a choice. The situation was untenable. 

“Federico,” Milana looked away from her aching, swollen belly to her oldest child. He was sitting in the corner on a pillow, broad sheets of paper spread out around him as he chewed absently on the limb of an old cloth doll. Was he playing, or had Madame Cosima taught him to read when she was his minder? The Madame had never so much as suggested such a thing... “ _Amore mio,_ come here.”

Her son set his doll aside and walked over, attentive as always. 

Her heart ached.

She’d nearly lost him, stolen by some perverted _stronzo_ in broad daylight, like he was nothing more than meat to be bartered. Sniffling back tears that had no business being on her face, Milana took his little hands in hers and pressed them to the side of her belly. “Feel that, _Piccolo?_ ” 

From the wide eyed wonder on his tiny face, he did.

Milana made her choice.


	14. ART

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muse insisted I attempt a thing. See thing.

Altaïr is supposed to be 2-3 years old. And I can't draw hands. So mitten fingers for everyone.


	15. Chapter Twelve

**M** other cannot walk to Venezia. Attempting to do so is beyond stupid, both because of her advanced state and the fact of the city’s location. We therefore must go by way of the Romanga and Forlì. Monteriggioni would have been closer, a safer road to travel, but mother fears her profession would bias the ladies of Auditore against her words.

 **I** did not like Forlì. It is wet. Unlike Egypt the annual flooding there doesn’t seem to be a predictable renewal of the land; pools of stagnant water fester and many homes sit abandoned, wooden frames rotting where they stand. There are also insects. And mercenaries; plentiful, prideful, drunk.

 **P** erhaps within the city walls it is better, stone keeping the smells of mold and decay at bay, but I do not know. When the guards at the gate stopped our group and the man mother negotiated our passage with went to speak to them, we slipped from the back of the cart and into the small stream of people going instead of coming.

 **I** think it was mother’s state that convinced the stableboy to let us sleep in his hayloft, though getting up there had been a trial. She has been tiring often, the travel wears on her, but the only thing she will admit to is that my still growing sibling is proving to be more troublesome than I was. 

**A** nd then she says that it is the job of little brothers and sisters to be such. They have to keep big brothers on their toes. 

**W** e did not spend long in Sforza territory -it should be noted that while the Pope’s nephew sits at the head of the table it is his wife who trains the guards on the door- for while tensions in Italia’s political landscape are not so high as to court open warfare, there is a history of violence that I can feel in the trembling of mother’s arms, trembling that does not stop until the dock and the corrupt harbormaster have vanished beyond the horizon. 

**I** hope Venezia is better, being a bog that is more water than earth compared to Forlì’s bog of dampened earth, but I doubt it. A city built on something so intemperate as water seems like a foolish dream, but like a dream it brings to mind something I feel I should remember. Something from Before, perhaps. 

* * *

Altaïr wiped his quill on his sleeve and blew on the paper, willing it to dry as he critiqued the Arabic script. He’d forgone a more complicated code, instead running the letters from left to right in the manner of Latin works, trusting his penmanship itself to be enough of a barrier to curious eyes. It really was atrocious. His fingers were still learning how to form the shapes in his mind, and were made clumsier still by the rocking of the ship.

Luckily, Bruno had delivered several rescued copies of the herald’s announcements before they left Florence so Altaïr had plenty of paper to practice on. It had been rather disappointing, though not surprising, to learn how easily the trusted heralds were bribed. They never _lied_ but they certainly _omitted_ a great deal.

Satisfied with his work, Altaïr pressed a copy of Ezio Auditore’s face to the paper so that it might absorb any lingering ink and carefully folded the sheets. He tucked all his tools away, storing the small inkwell in a pouch at his waist beside the worn soldier figure he planned to give to his new brother or sister, and climbed down from his perch. Mother was leaning against the side of the ship, hair loose and drifting in the breeze of their passage. 

She looked thin. Perhaps it was only that her belly was so very large on her frame.

The Assassin tucked his chin to his chest and ran his fingers along the hood of his new travel cloak. Mother gleamed gold and blue, beautiful as always, but there was something else creeping through her. Something that threatened the so-bright star in her belly.

Mother tucked her hair behind her ear, perking up as another passenger spoke and gestured with shoulders squared and chest puffing with pride. Their ship had only been at sea a little over a day, and the early morning light made the white washed walls of the palaces glow like Atlantis rising from the mists. Altaïr swallowed thickly.

It was a lot of water.

A little ship, a _boat_ , came out to meet them. It bobbed in the water, a soldier stuffed full of self-importance bobbing with it as he demanded to see their captain. The captain was already there, however, and his face was red as he bellowed back.

“What?!” Incensed, the man practically had to be held back from leaping overboard. “There is no plague! You think I would risk my crew and livelihood for a few ducats?”

“I only know the words of my Doge, and he has ordered quarantine for any ships coming from the south.”

“This is Venezia! All ships approach from the south!”

The soldier shook his head, false sympathy rolling off of him in waves. “Nevertheless… though, I am sure the Doge could find his worries soothed with the right _incentive.”_

“Oh. Is that how it is…” The captain said, sending a wad of phlegm into the sparkling water with a _plunk_. “And how much _incentive_ would the Doge need?”

The soldier gave a number. His underlings snickered behind him.

“That’s _three times_ what I would pay in taxes! Would your Doge like my ship, as well as my purse?!”

“If you cannot pay, _Capitano_ , you can wait.”

The sailors and the soldiers exchanged a few more barbs, but Altaïr did not stay to watch. Mother stumbled away, hand to her mouth, and Altaïr followed. He rushed to her side and let her use his shoulder as a support as she lowered herself onto a coil of rope.

“Forty days.” She repeated the words as if in shock. Altaïr patted her face, feeling his own heat. Finally she saw him, worried green eyes focusing as she squeezed his fingers. “Oh, _Piccolo_ , I do not think your sibling will wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hell of a time finding over water travel times, but boat is supposed to be fastest and a direct route by walking from Forli to Venice is supposed to take a little over a day according to Google Maps. Milana and Altaïr wouldn't have taken a direct route if they had walked, which Milana couldn't have walked anyway, so I decided to give their boat that time span. They left early with the tide and then sailed through the night to get there in the morning.
> 
> It was supposed to be the most efficient form of transport. Alas, Milana did not expect the Templar Inquisition.
> 
> Next Chapter: Desmond Arrives!


	16. Chapter Thirteen

Desmond remembers dying. He remembers death by drowning, stabbing, burning, and even poison. He remembers that after simulating the act so many times, killing and being killed, it hadn’t been so much a choice as an inevitably. Still, how he died was in his hands, and so he put his hand on the Eye.

(He had been so tired, and so alone, and then his ancestors had been there. Sympathetic and encouraging. _Just a spark, and you can rest._ ) 

He remembers the Eye burning, the power creeping up along his arm into his brain, liquid fire following the path of his ancestry and burning away all that was imperfect and human. For an Isu it would have been like flipping on a light switch. A human wouldn’t even be acknowledged. Desmond, however, his blood had been just the right balance that he could use the damn thing and then die, hollowed out body and soul.

(He was already hollow, a vessel for greater things, a tool to be used up and discarded just like Clay, like Daniel, like William always wanted.) 

Not even his father would have gotten a reaction from the Pedestal, his heritage a fraction of a percentage too low to register, and Desmond himself was an only child.

It was a nice safety feature, he supposed, so long as human cloning didn’t get off the ground. Who knew how many samples of his blood were floating around Assassin and Templar labs, really?

Fuck. 

With the Animus and the Bleeding Effect, would his clones even know they were clones?

...was he a clone? He had woken, apropo of nothing, in an Abstergo lab. How casually Vidic would talk about leaving him to die, even after they went through all the trouble to kidnap him, was suddenly suspect for a whole new reason. And then there was his Father, who pushed all the same buttons, who just happened to get kidnapped, too, and he the _great_ Mentor... 

Desmond decided he much preferred being dead to being a clone.

(He can’t remember much but Gray. Endless fields of colorless grass, a sky that was forever on the brink of rain, and _peace_.)

Turned out he didn’t have much choice. When did he ever? 

He’s pretty sure he’s alive. What he’s not sure of is how, or why, and he can’t see anything but there is an ocean of blue that _feels_ safe. Warm. There are sounds, distant and muffled and waterlogged, that come through. He tries to reach out, sometimes, and sometimes something presses back. He’s not _alone_.

And that, that is _nice_. 

(He should have told Clay yes.)

Between moments of awareness a slowly dawning horror creeps up on him: he is a _baby_. He is an _unborn_ baby and he is in some woman’s _uterus._ If there was a God out there and not a Precursor in Disguise, it hates him.

His world trembles, contracts, and Desmond would cry if he could. He doesn’t _want_ to go. Inside his mother he’s _safe_ , he feels _safe_ , he doesn’t want-!

_“Spingi!”_

(Is he even himself, or is he a memory? Is there any difference?)

_“Spingi!”_

Between one Animus session and the next, Desmond’s sense of time had faded into the abstract. There was only the moment, and however long a sensation stretched between one relevant action and the next. He doesn’t want to leave the soft blue sea of warmth, but the pressure forces him down, down, and with a suffocating sensation he slides butt first into the world and drops not into the slender soap scoured hands of a midwife but a man’s hands calloused and covered in scars.

They are a mottled purple, two instincts warring, they aren’t _safe_. Desmond’s coughs turn to wails as the cord pressing on his throat is removed. The _alarm_ in the air is so thick his skin bruises under the weight of it, and Desmond doesn’t stop screaming until his slime covered self is all but thrown at soft, welcoming, delirious arms that sparkle like polished lapis lazuli.

They hold him close, wrap him in _safety_ and Desmond hides his face in a bare breast. Something wet drips on the back of his head, warm and smelling of the sea, and the body he’s pressed against jolts. Around them there is shouting and panic and someone in a black robe clambering over a short, wooden wall scowling at everything and everyone.

None of that matters. Lips press to his head, and the words he hears are breathy for all the grief in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Removed lines of dialogue at the end. While correcting some formatting issues (why, why does Ao3 insist on inserting spaces around my italics??) I realized I didn't like how it just drops in there. The fact that Milana isn't lactating still holds.


	17. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Character Death.

Altaïr wrings the cloth in his hands, pretending it’s flesh, pretending the _plip-plip_ of water is blood. He can kill a man, kindle fear in a country, but a fever doesn’t have a heart he can strike. It holds his mother hostage and all he can do is pray. 

But who does an Assassin pray to? Those who constructed the Apples? Why, when for all the knowledge he gleaned from it not one bit can help his mother.

The water has lost its chill, but it is still cooler than her skin. Altaïr places the wet rag on her forehead and her eyes flutter open, but they don’t see him. She smiles anyway. She’s always smiled for Altaïr. “Federico, look what we made. Isn’t he perfect?”

Mother’s hands grope at the empty space by her side, and upon noting the lack she begins to struggle. The damp cloth falls to the bed as she rises. “My baby, where is my baby!”

“ _Qui, Madonna._ ” The wet nurse calls gently, stepping into their rented room with little Angelo in her arms. He looks like Sef, with his small face scrunched in unhappy scrutiny and a swirl of brown wisps on the very top of his head. In her more lucid moments mother claims Federico was the bigger child, blessed with a full bloom of dusky brown locks that begged for ribbons. “The babe was hungry.”

“Why…?” Grief asserts itself on mother’s face. For an irrational moment Altaïr has to stand still and grapple with the instinct to murder the wet nurse when the woman stops at the foot of the sickbed with a dubious expression. Angelo, in a move that speaks highly of himself, lets out a single, demanding cry and reaches for his mother. 

Altaïr snatches the squirming bundle from the woman and plops him on the bed. Mother curls around him like a cat, wiggling her fingers over his face while apologizing for not having the milk to feed him. Again. Not having milk doesn’t make her a bad mother. It is not her fault.

Altaïr tells her this while dabbing at her neck with the freshly damped cloth. Her not being able to feed Angelo was the whole reason they were allowed off the ship; babies needed feeding constantly, stomachs too small to hold the food they needed, and by allowing him and mother into the city it removed the onus of providing that source themselves. If Angelo died, or grew sick, it would not be the guards’ fault. Their conscience, or whatever they possessed that passed for one, would be clear.

But the Assassin would remember their faces. The sneers that had turned to flustered panic. The _delay._

Before the doctor could be found and brought out to the ship Angelo had been delivered into the world by the only sailor with _any_ experience with births: a former _goatherd._

Altaïr would remember, and he would see the debt settled. It was only with Maria’s help he’d been able to find a wet nurse so quickly, the huntress flying ahead circling an orphanage of some sort until Altaïr could speak with the caretakers. 

“My boys. My sweet, sweet boys.” Mother coos, nuzzling Angelo. Her eyes sparkle as she looks up, and the smile she gives is just for Altaïr. “You have no idea how happy I am to give you this, _Piccolo._ With a brother, you won’t ever be alone.”

“I’m not sweet.” He whispers, carefully crawling onto the bed and snuggling against her back. He plops the cloth on the side of her head, cradled as it is in her folded arm, and continues, “I’m greedy and selfish and I want _both_ of you.” 

But she’s already fallen asleep again, one hand on her equally sleeping infant’s stomach.

Altaïr isn’t sure when he falls asleep, too, but he wakes to Angelo’s screaming and he can feel the difference in the body next to him. Still warm, but she’s no longer burning from the inside.

Mother’s fever had broken. What it left behind is washed out and wan, the vibrancy he’s known his whole life is missing.

 _Colorless_.


	18. Chapter Fifteen

The terrors did not find him that night. Kept at bay by the muddling effect of wine and the warmth of a beautiful woman, when Ezio sleepily blinked to awareness he half thought he was still dreaming. Dark curls cascaded loosely down a naked back as slender limbs stretched. Framed by an open window, faded red curtains drifting in a morning breeze, the sun drenched figure blurred into aching familiarity.

Truth banished the comforting fog from his mind. Christina would never have let him linger so late -early?- in her bed.

How long had it been since he’d last fled from her room, the promise of her lips speeding him to safety even as her father called for their household guard, the _city_ guard, till Ezio arrived panting and disheveled at his father’s feet? A lifetime. 

His thoughts turned darker, raw as a picked scab, to the Conspirators and those they called _Maestro._ A dozen lifetimes. More. 

Claudia would not be safe, _mother_ would not be safe, not until his father’s blade cut the supports from under his enemies’ feet and the weight of their crimes brought them tumbling to their graves. Uncle had shown him the truth of that. The Spainard would have found them so quickly in his own country, and with no allies to call upon… Uncle Mario had him saved from making an unforgivable mistake.

 _“Bella.”_ Ezio purred, rolling onto his stomach. Eyes half lidded against the light, he watched her startle at his voice and turn. “Going so soon?”

He’d liked her giggles. The way her nipples pebbled, subtly changing the shape of her breasts, teasing him in their roundness as he’d nipped at her neck and held her close. She giggled now, and they bounced, the sound almost innocent despite the sway in her hips. “Not all of us can live on wine alone, Ser Ezio.”

“This is true.” He pushed himself up, blanket sliding away from his legs and off onto the floor. He could hear his toes pop as he flexed them, though his footsteps themselves were silent. The courtesan made to reach for a chemise he vaguely remembered removing himself, not that it had been necessary. The material stopped just below her hips... “A man needs love, as well as wine.”

The Assassin pressed her back against him. One arm wrapped around her chest with the other dipping a hand between her legs. She was still wet, the smooth skin of her inner thigh tacky from the night’s activities. He touched the back of her ear with his nose, humming as his fingers continued dancing along her leg. 

_“Ser Ezio.”_

“Mmmhmm?”

He blinked at the puff of hot breath she sent at his confused eyes. Her soft hands stopped his explorations with a grip like iron. “You can have me, or you can have the room, but you cannot have _both_. It is too late and I, for one, need _bread._ ”

Ezio sighed, long and forlorn as she escaped his embrace. There was a pitcher on a tall, skinny dresser and it was to this she fled. It held no wine, but water, and after pouring a portion in a small basin she set to scrubbing her face, her neck, the pits of her arms and the place where their passions had mingled. It was pleasant to watch, and reminded him of his own needs.

“ _Bella_ , _passare il vaso da notte?_ ”

A foot he’d spent a great deal of time admiring nudged the wide brimmed pot from under the dresser. There hadn’t been any call for it in the night, but he _had_ drunk nearly three bottles of wine.

The courtesan completed her ablutions and dumped the used water out the window. There may or may not have been an alarmed cry from below. Ezio smirked. Such was not something he often concerned himself with, taking to the rooftops as he did.

“Hmm. If we are done with business, Ser Ezio, I wonder if I might ask a question of a more personal nature?” She was running her fingers through her hair, dark as rich loam, not quite looking at him. 

“That depends,” The Assassin cocked his head back, hands on hips, and despite all they’d done together blood rose to her lovely cheeks. “I have nothing to hide. But what might you wish to know…?”

With one final swipe of her hand she tucked her hesitation away. “Is Milana alright, and the boys? It was probably a boy. I had thought to expect her weeks ago and now-”

Ezio raised his hands. “ _Pace_. I think you may be confused, I do not know any Milana.”

“There can be no confusion. You are Ser Ezio, the infamous _Assassino_. She was sure the child was yours, and if not, then surely Federico…” Her tongue stilled, caught on the cold fear that welled as Ezio’s gaze pinned her. His Sight peeled away layers of careful ambiguity.

She meant him no harm. He could See she didn’t mean to drive her delicate fist through his soul, but one didn’t need to _mean_ harm to hurt you. Never once had Uberto shone with the bloody malice his father had warned him to be watchful of; it had never been personal for the Gonfaloniere. _Ezio_ had meant nothing to him. Just a foolish boy. Another lesson, hard learned.

He towered over the courtesan, closing the distance between them without thinking. Her back hit the wall and the sound of seabirds drifted from the window. The Assassin’s voice was low, rumbling, a lion instead of a housecat. “What about my brother?”

“Not your brother.” Her whole body trembled, and he could _feel_ Federico’s disappointment. “Or, yes, your brother’s. Little Federico is Milana’s oldest, she named him for his father, I think? Always sentimental, that woman. Was coming here, wanted permission of the Madame to join us, our Madame isn’t so strict on children as her own Federico is a good boy, does as he’s told I, I, I have a letter!”

“Letter?” Ezio felt himself shaking, or perhaps it was simply his heart trying to fight free of his chest. The courtesan gave a single jerk of her head, nearly falling over her own dress as he moved aside and she ran for the door. 

He watched her progress as he dressed himself. His hands fumbled with the buckles.

Federico had a son?

His mind cast back to the woman’s first claim.

 _Ezio_ had a _son?_ Or, maybe a daughter. A child of some sort. Would she look like Claudia, have her aunt’s temper? 

....did Federico look like Federico? _How_ could he have missed such a child?

The door of the room received a single courteous knock before swinging open, the Madame of the bordello entering with pursed lips. The dark haired beauty he’d slept with was behind her, eyes still wide, face still pale. Shame, hot and spiteful, kept the apology in his throat. 

Silently, the Madame offered a slip of folded paper. It was a simple missive: an offer of payment for temporary housing if a contract could not be agreed upon. Inquiry to a reasonable _traghetti._ A mention of rekindling old friendships. The few lines of black script were nothing compared to his questions, multiplying with every second.

“This came from _Firenze?”_

There was a crumpled message from _Il Magnifico_ in his belt pouch. He’d already taken care of the problem, but perhaps a direct report was in order.

* * *

There was blood in his mouth. Altaïr could taste it. He didn’t think it was his, but he couldn’t quite remember where it had come from. 

Mother was dead.

There were people in the room, saying things, about him. About Angelo. Angelo’s crying had brought them, and mother made them stay. The wet nurse was walking in circles, rocking his brother, saying… something. To someone. Angelo was a beautiful baby, of course he was, mother made him.

Mother was dead.

What did it matter that he was well-formed and unblemished? That he would be easily placed if the father couldn’t be found, if he didn’t want him? _Mother_ wanted him!

Mother was dead.

Altaïr was different, though. There was blood in his mouth, and a woman in nun’s habit was frowning at him. A man stood at her side, gesturing to a wound on his arm, and whatever they were saying made the baby scream more. Mother lay on the bed, and her hand was cold, but her hair still glittered like gold.

Mother was dead.

Altaïr was yet young for an apprenticeship, of course, but he wasn’t a citizen of Venice. Could he pay for such a thing? Mother was a penniless whore. Mother was his _mother_.

Mother was dead.

“Get the fuck out.” A voice broke through the fog, at once both tired and angry. “Get the fuck out of my client’s room _right the fuck now_. Not you, you stay, woman paid you, too.”

A face filled Altaïr’s vision. It wasn’t pretty. The man was one eyed with a nose full of burst blood vessels and a mouth that only smiled on one side. Mother had liked his accent. 

Mother was dead.

“ _Bambino,_ ” the face of war said, impossibly gentle. “She wouldn’t want you to do this, would she?”

“...Mother is dead.”

_“Sì.”_

Altaïr stroked his mother’s hair. “She wanted me. Us.”

“She seemed like a lovely woman.” The man raised a hand as if to touch Altaïr, thought better of it, and ran his fingers through his hair instead. He let out a long sigh. “Your mother paid for a week, so that’s three more days you got here. Three days to decide what you want to do. And then there’s the practical matters.”

Altaïr’s fingers clenched the blonde locks. This time the blood _was_ his.

“It costs as much to die as it does to live in some places. It’s not seemly, but you’ll need the coin, and I’m sure she wouldn’t begrudge it. There are some people who would-”

“No.” There was a thought, drifting just out of reach, and a memory of pyre. Against tradition and decency he’d burned Al Mualim, his mentor, his enemy, not out of spite or whatever Abbas thought but… there had been something. In that last flare of poisonous light a drop of knowledge had seemed so dangerous, and their teacher had _known_ things. He’d taken those things to his grave, but Altaïr _knew_ it wouldn’t be enough. Knew it down to the bones he’d hidden with his last breaths.

Somewhere, somewhen, some _thing_ would steal whatever Rashid ad-din Sinan had known from his very blood. 

The thought of unknown, faceless persons cutting open his _mother_ to take whatever knowledge her abandoned body might offer was viscerally worse. Altaïr pressed a hand to his turning stomach. “ _No._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orphanage Helper Guy: Oh noes! This poor child is in shock, let me pick it up and remove it from the corpse filled room.  
> Altaïr: *screeches like a cat that was just thrown in a bath and bites a chunk out of OHG arm*  
> Inn Keeper: WTF is going on here?  
> Orphanage Helper Guy: DEMON!!!  
> Altaïr: *placidly sits with dead body*  
> Inn Keeper: Riiiiight.
> 
> Also, Altaïr was totally on to Layla's shenanigans. Not that he *understood* them, but he got the jist. And did not approve.


	19. Chapter Sixteen 1/2

Altaïr falls out of one nightmare and into another as his bed lurches beneath him. The hay is dry and prickly, each scratch on his skin an anchor to the present, and the arid mountains of Masyaf gradually give way to stinking canals and crowded walkways. His eyes are gummy from sleep, nearly caked shut from old tears and smoke, and he rubs them free with a yawn. 

His sleeve still smells like mother's funeral pyre. The thought kills any appetite that might have grown through the night, and Altaïr carefully checks his surroundings from the safety of the cart. There are few people out, mostly servants buying the daily provisions and sailors stumbling back to their berths with newly emptied purses, and all are swathed in the disinterested glows of white and gray.

Altaïr rolls over, strands of hay catching on his clothes and skin, and puts a hand out on the side of the cart to steady himself.

 _“Dio!”_

The hay merchant isn’t hostile, but there is a sourness to his breath and redness to his wide eyes. The donkey that has been tied to the cart seems more perturbed at their rounds being stopped than Altaïr’s presence. The reborn Assassin sneezes, hay falling back into the cart as his body shudders with the force of it, and climbs over the side with a quiet, “ _Buongiorno._ ”

Away from the insulating warmth of the hay, Altaïr shivers. The streets are quiet in the morning light, the shadows between buildings lingering, and Altaïr lets his feet pick their own path. A dark shape moves over the worn cobbles in front of him and Altaïr knows there is someone traveling above. An Assassin, perhaps? _The_ Assassin? 

Mother had moved them to Venice to find him, Ezio Auditore, Angelo’s sire. 

Altaïr can feel his mouth twist in distaste, the name catching on his tongue and transforming into _idiota_. Altaïr cannot say he understood his mother’s reasoning. The man may be the reason for his brother’s existence, and he may even be Altaïr’s last remaining uncle, but the fact that she had been able to track him through word of his exploits should have been a mark against him. 

If she only wanted to be courteous and let him know he had a son, a letter would have sufficed.

...but a letter could be intercepted, and while the likelihood of someone taking an interest in the missives of a random flower were remote, the child of such a notorious person would be of immeasurable value. If not now, if not to the _Assassino_ himself, then in future.

Altaïr stopped, his feet and wandering thoughts having taken him to the edge of the canal. He settled carefully on the ground, legs dangling over the edge, and stared into the murky water, into his own warped reflection. It was even colder by the water with stone radiating chill like ice. He didn’t feel like moving.

They could have gone anywhere. He was big enough now he could have helped, and between the two of them Altaïr was certain they could have survived. Certainly, life would have never been as comfortable as the one they led in Mughetto’s halls, but they would have had each other. And little Angelo. Instead, they came to Venice.

And he’d burned mother in her best dress and a stolen boat, with no one to mourn her passing but himself and the bones of the long dead. He’d had to keep feeding the fire, to make sure everything burned. He could still smell it; hair and flesh and...

Altaïr bowed his head, allowing the lapping of water to drown out the growing rumble of people. He hoped she found the peace in death that he had not. But he couldn’t, even if it had been what mother wanted, go to the so-called Assassin. He couldn’t risk Angelo. 

Never betray the brotherhood.

Even if it was the smallest of brotherhoods, just the two of them, it was Altaïr’s.


	20. Chapter Sixteen 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my google-fu was not able to get a clear answer as to weather the Ospedale dell Pietà and the in-game Vistiazone were the same building, looking at pictures they seem like matches but looking at maps would suggest they aren't. Both were founded in the 1400's. Still, the future shenanigans involved in them being the same amuses me so that is what I am running with. 
> 
> And, just imagine, Ezio's great grandpa rolling up to a humble orphanage and dropping a couple of chests full of gold on them. "Yeah, this is to help with your renovations, one caveat - you gotta put this underground maze and and sculptures in."

Angelo was gone. As was the bedding, but Altaïr couldn’t find it in himself to care about who had stolen the linens. Who had stolen his little brother, however, that he cared very much about. Frowning, Altaïr stepped into the room and knelt a safe distance from the empty bed. He leaned over, cheek brushing the floor. “Angelo?”

His little brother hadn’t somehow rolled beneath the bed while he’d been gone. Nor was a thief, of children or bedding, hiding in the cramped space between floor and mattress. Only dust, dead insects, and an old stocking. Altaïr stood up and very nearly sat down again. He blinked the spots from his eyes and pushed past a headache to watch the world bleed into a pale imitation of itself.

The smallest spot of gold lingered on the bed. Harried footprints paced, layering over one another until they became nothing more than a slash of murky yellow against the floorboards. He could almost hear the echo of a wailing baby, ears twinging with phantom pains.

Altaïr stumbled into the hall, eyes squeezed shut as a nail forced itself into his skull, and nearly ran into another patron. A tall man, well groomed, he only spared enough attention to swat Altaïr’s head with a muttered, “ _Bel tentavio._ ” 

Scowling, Altaïr rubbed his head and watched the man hail a decidedly less reputable looking companion. They spoke, briefly, before the younger man nodded and headed off, the cloth at his neck waving like a battered flag. What business did thieves have at an Inn? 

“No.” Altaïr breathed, leaning against the wall as he filtered through his information. He could bother with the puzzle of the thieves later, once Angelo was secured. Or not at all. How a man pedaled his talents was none of Altaïr’s concerns, and from the way the innkeeper’s daughter was smiling around the empty tray she held against his chest the well dressed _stronzo_ was something of a regular.

Altaïr headed for the kitchen, the familiar smell of a cooking broth weaving around his head and lulling his nerves into complacency. The Innkeeper was chopping some vegetable or other, scarred face in a perpetual half scowl, the pieces coming out less than uniform. Altaïr tugged on the man’s shirt, “Where is my brother?”

_Thwock!_

The metal sunk into the tabletop, nicking a forefinger in the process. “ _Bambino!_ ”

“Where is my brother?” Altaïr eyed the thin line of blood dripping over cut turnips. The innkeeper followed his gaze and wrapped a portion of the apron around his finger, squeezing it in a fist. “Were you robbed?”

Was that why there were thieves? To negotiate return of goods? People?

Altaïr frowned. It seemed unlikely. One didn’t normally flirt with their hostage takers.

“ _Bambino,_ ” The innkeeper said again, calmer, turning all his attention to the child before him. “It’s been _five days_. When you did not return, _la donna_ went back to _Opsedale_ _Pietà_ and took him with her.”

“But, he’s my brother.”

“Yes, but you were not here, and we did not know when you would come back.”

If he came back, unspoken but from the surprise at his appearance not unthought. How could a child be expected to raise a child? Altaïr could not fault their logic. It still hurt. He was perfectly capable, with more experience than most, certainly more than Angelo’s absent sire. Altaïr’s sons had grown into good men. It was not lack of character or skills that took Sef from them. 

The former Mentor of the Assassin brotherhood blinked confusedly up at the old veteran. The man’s good eye glimmered with concern, both sides of his mouth matching in the downturn. Altaïr shook his own head and pushed himself back to standing, “I’m going to get him. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“ _Tsk!_ ” The man scowled, his face twisting into something truly grotesque. “You sit right there, _bambino_. Eat, then go. I’ll not have it weighed against my soul if you fall into a canal and drown before even reaching the _Ospedale._ ” 

Altaïr made to reply, but his stomach betrayed him, grumbling for the world to hear. When was the last he had eaten? Altaïr couldn’t remember, but mother had still been alive. Her stomach had been uneasy even before Angelo’s birth, and she’d pushed her thin soup at him with an equally watery smile, promising later. A few sips then later.

“It isn’t from the canal.” The innkeeper grunted, handing the child a bowl of steaming stew. A bodiless fish head stared at him while a variety of edible flotsam bobbed around it. “Don’t eat the fish from the canals. People dump all sorts of shit in the water.”

“Including shit!” The man’s daughter cheerily called as she flounced into the kitchen, tray rattling.

Altaïr ate.

* * *

 _Le Ospedale Santa Maria della Pietà_ ’s location confused Altaïr at first. As an institution for the poor and orphaned of the city, run by nuns, being so close to the Dosoduro district seemed counterproductive. The white stone walls faced the Grand Canal, and it would be so easy for tiny, curious feet to take one step too far. From his shaded perch he could see a square filled with costumed performers, and not far from _them_ a small garden grew with coquettish smiles and beckoning arms.

There was a clatter and a puff of down as the Assassin's companion landed among the greenery on the balcony, a pigeon clenched in her talons.

“ _Marhaba_ , Maria.” Altaïr said, voice soft as he listened with eyes half closed. It was faint, blending in among the pipes and lutes of the practicing street performers, but from within the orphanage came the sound of singing. Young, childish voices reached for the heavens, climbing in pitch with the unified skill that could only come from a lifetime of dedication.

It was the sort of the institution that harmonized well with the festive district. Angelo, however, wouldn’t fit their mold. Not forever. Not unless he sacrificed his manhood the way Altaïr once sacrificed a finger. 

As if sensing his thoughts his companion ruffled her feathers, the white and brown barring of her breast puffing up in displeasure. The Assassin glanced skyward to check the time and nodded to himself. The orphanage had remarkable security, presumably to protect the virtue of its charges, but he was an Assassin. The simplest option would be to present himself as he appeared; an orphaned child. Angelo’s wet nurse knew him, and he would likely be admitted, if only to retrieve those few items belonging to himself and his mother that they were holding in trust.

But the likelihood of being allowed to leave _with_ his little brother was remote. Altaïr played with the chapped, loose skin of his lip as he waited for a break in traffic below. He’d spent all day watching the gleaming white building and while there was no conveniently open window to access, there were smaller entrances on the side used for deliveries.

There was also something tucked into the shadows of the bell tower that glowed with a similar light to that of a bureau’s roof. Reaching it would bothersome. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was related to the idiot. An investigation for later, when there were not so many people to witness and his brother was safely won.

Altaïr jumped off the balcony and onto a yet unlit light pole, sliding down the painted pole to firm earth. Meanwhile, Maria took flight, scattering leaves and feathers as she launched herself skyward. They had a plan. Drifting between bodies Altaïr let himself slowly make his way to his mark. The door was a heavy dark wood, so much so that he actually had to put effort into knocking on it. 

Altaïr then darted to the side, dropping down and thinking quiet thoughts.

Several moments passed and Altaïr was considering knocking again when the dull thunk of a bolt moving sounded out. The door swung open. A gangly boy on the cusp of manhood stepped into the street, eyes peering into the passing crowds and radiating annoyance. His expression turned to horror as Maria dove at him, wings buffeting his head while screeching recriminations. Some people stopped to stare, gasping or laughing or making the sign of the cross.

The boy ducked, arms curling around his head for protection as he tried to make for the safety of the _Pietà_ only to be blocked by sharp talons wielded by an even sharper mind. 

Not a soul saw Altaïr slip inside.

* * *

“...do you think the Doge will come to the recital?”

“Certainly not. I hear he doesn’t even leave the Palazzo for Mass, what with that _demon_ flitting about.”

Altaïr kept his face blank as the two women passed, their whispers not nearly soft enough to go unheard. Neither took notice of the small boy in the midst of his chores. With his hood up and his head down, the Assassin could have been any one of the resident penitents. The box he’d scrounged from a storage room only sealed the disguise.

He was looking for the nursery, but so far his search had proved fruitless. Frustration and not a small drop of worry gnawed at his mind. Surely, the sisters wouldn’t have sent his brother away already. He wasn’t even two weeks old. Not ready to be weaned, let alone apprenticed, and even if a family put a claim on him Altaïr’s came first. Always.

“...Francesa, what I have said before? Deep breaths, into the belly, you are holding a note not a conversation! And Beatrice. It is a flute not a baguette! You must hold it as such! Delicately, but with intent _._ ”

Altaïr moved down a long hallway with smokey glass windows. Practice rooms lined the opposite wall and a white haired music maestro berated his novices in one while scales were drilled in another. The Assassin continued on, headed for a winding staircase. How many levels did the orphanage have? From outside observations he would have said three, but the stairs appeared to lead down, well below the waterline.

How would that even work? Pumps, most likely, but the expense involved in such an effort would have been egregious. How was a simple, humble orphanage to afford such a thing? Altaïr’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. How much would a childless family _donate_ to the institution that provided a healthy heir for their estate? 

“...such a colicky baby, I really don’t know what to do. The doctor says there is nothing wrong with him, but half the time I cannot get the poor thing to eat.” 

Altaïr’s ears pricked at the familiar voice of Angelo’s wet nurse. He padded up the steps the second floor, following the echo of conversation. 

“You’ve burped him, yes? Sometimes they swallow too much and it hurts their little tummies to be so full.”

“I’m no babe, Sister. I would almost think he knows his mother is dead. I’ve had to separate him during naps or his cries get the rest started and then no one sleeps at all.”

Altaïr came to a stop beside a support column, leaning against it and listening as the elderly nun sighed. “And we have had no luck in locating either the brother or father. Poor child. Unfortunately, from _Firenze_ is not much to go on. You are _certain_ the woman gave no other details?”

The wet nurse shuffled in place. “Madonna was ill most of the time, she gave many details, often conflicting. He was a handsome man of _Firenze_ in _Venezia_ on business, that is all I can be sure of.”

“Handsome, hmm?” The nun reached over to pat a nervous shoulder. “Well, it shall be as the Lord wills. I will take a look at this so fussy child. Perhaps he just doesn’t like you.”

“Sister!”

Altaïr waited for the wet nurse to pass his hiding spot on her way to the stairs, and then followed the chuckling nun. The woman walked with a heavy, confident stride as she navigated the stone corridors. Occasionally she gave a soft nod of greeting to a passing sister, or a group of children being escorted on their way to lessons or Mass.

The nursery was brightly lit with a candelabra hanging from the ceiling and wall scones burning in every corner. One wall had a long table set into it, and on that was a row of padded baskets. Altaïr did not have to enter the spacious chamber to know Angelo was not there. The nun exchanged pleasantries with the two women watching the babies, one of which had a fat infant latched to her teat, before moving to a room a few doors down.

It was not nearly as big as the nursery. It was not nearly as cheerful. Heavy tapestries on the walls helped keep the natural chill of the stone at bay but it was still cool and there was no fireplace that Altaïr could see. Baskets of used bedding and swaddle linens sat in the corner waiting to be laundered. A shelf of clean linens stood ready. 

“Let’s take a look at you, hmm?” The nun crossed over to a desk, plucking Altaïr’s stolen brother from his basket like one would take an egg from a hen. Angelo’s little face twisted with unhappiness, body wriggling in impotence. She tucked him into the crook of her arm. “Yes, I can see that your father was quite handsome. Lissabetta wasn’t wrong about that.”

Lissabetta. Had that been the wet nurse's name? Altaïr snorted and settled into shadow. He wanted to run in and snatch his brother from her arms, but that was the thinking that had ruined them at Solomon’s Temple. Angelo glowed like a small sun in the old woman’s arms, a sun that began to sniffle as he was set down and unwrapped, tiny naked body exposed.

“Oh my, you are a little thing, aren’t you? Maybe if we set Giovanna to feeding you it will go down better… hmm.”

Altaïr bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He was not above pushing old ladies down stairs. No one would ever have to know.

His brother flailed, clearly attempting to grab the hands that were wrapping him in fresh cloth. Garbled bubbles of baby speech escaped him until with a final indignant cry he was placed back in his basket. As the nun left Angelo began taking great gasps of air. Dew formed in his eyes.

Altaïr caught the door before it could finish swinging shut and silently entered. He dropped his box beside his brother’s basket and stood on his toes. Angelo was rubbing his cheek against the basket.

“ _Fratellino._ ” Altaïr whispered. “ _Fratellino_ , I am sorry I took so long.”

The baby sniffled. He turned his face to Altaïr, and for a brief moment there was a patina like shine in the infant blue gaze. Spit bubbles spilled out of a trembling mouth, but he didn’t cry. His skin was so soft against Altaïr’s rough lips.

“I want you.” Altaïr’s voice was choked. “ _I_ want you.” 

Angelo did not belong here. Altaïr did not belong here.

Softly singing one of mother’s songs, the Eagle of Masyaf emptied his box of paper and quills. Angelo squirmed, head lolling to watch as extra linens were formed into a comfortable nest within. The tiny mouth gaped in a yawn. The little body wiggled for comfort, a caterpillar in a cocoon as Altaïr dropped one final linen on top to hide him. 

Maria was waiting.


	21. Chapter Seventeen

The rooftops of Florence filled him with a bittersweet nostalgia. He could have walked the streets of his childhood, but the midday crowds would be at their peak and he didn’t have the patience for such things. The roofs were far faster, more direct, and with the Pazzi removed and _Il Magnifico_ once again asserting his will through the Signoria, few stood watch to cry alarm at an Assassin’s passage. Had it been so when father wore the Brotherhood’s colors? 

Federico?

How many times had his brother goaded him into a race, and how many times had he only _just_ won? That last night, before everything fell apart, had Federico let him win? He could still remember his smile. That teasing grin as Ezio trembled from the effort, watching Federico pull himself onto the ledge, calm as anything. It had been a victory of heartbeats.

Blood pulsed in Ezio’s ears as he made a jump, momentarily weightless, eyes closed as the exhilaration carried him toward Palazzo de’Medici. The tails of his robe fluttered like wings in the wind. Even after all he’d done, all he learned, he was _still_ chasing after his brother, wasn’t he? 

How had he missed _un nipote?_ In _Firenze!_

Guilt swamped his heart as his own memories supplied the answer. He’d never cared to look, had he? Such a shining, carefree life they had led - _Ezio_ had led- ignorant and trusting. He’d given the evidence of his father’s innocence to the enemy. He’d nearly gotten mother and sister killed on the road. 

He’d left his brother’s son behind in his haste to leave, the poison of the whispers worse than the blood on his hands. He’d apparently left his _own_ son behind. Had he truly slept with a woman who might have been as a sister to him, and not realized it? Ezio did not have words. 

_Milana_ had said nothing. 

As the Assassin came to stop atop the Medici garden wall, startling several birds and a servant as he did so, he was ashamed to admit to himself he could not remember the woman that had borne the name. He took his pleasure where he could, when he could, and he was more like to remember the curve of a neck or the sound of a sigh than any one of a hundred names.

Perhaps Paola would know her.

Ezio felt his breath catch as his shoulders sagged. If Paola knew, why would she not tell him? Was she not a friend of the Auditore?

The thought crept into his mind, small and dark, like a biting flea. Uberto had been a friend of the Auditore, too. Swallowing, Ezio dropped off the wall and into the garden proper. The fruit trees had yet to flower, but their leaves were lush and green. Ezio looked down at the man he’d surprised; at the pale, sweating face and bulbs that had spilled across the walkway. 

Ezio offered a polite nod. “Messere. If you would please inform _Il Magnifico_ I have some business to discuss?”

“Business?” Impossibly, the gardener grew paler. He stood, nodding rapidly as he backed toward the Palazzo door. “Of course, _Assassino_. I shall inform Signore Lorenzo at once. Please, please wait a moment.” 

Ezio waited. The sun was warm on his face, and though a curtain or two was shifted as curious eyes peeked out no one dared disturb the peace of the garden. Such was how Lorenzo de’Medici found him, Ezio’s hands speckled with dirt from gathered bulbs and face tilted to the sky. 

“Ezio.” Lorenzo murmured, stepping into the light. “This is a pleasant surprise. I did not expect to see you back in _Firenze_ so soon.”

“I have some personal matters to look into, and I thought you might like to know the _pezzo di merde_ that was following your friend is… not.”

“Ah.” Lorenzo wore the fine clothing of a nobleman, but his expression was as hooded as any Master Assassin. He tapped a finger on his cane. “I had wondered, with the nature of the request… It was a tiring journey? Come, Ezio, sit and tell me of the cretin’s demise. I have your payment, of course, in my office.”

Lorenzo’s light brown hair shone near gold in the sunlight. The Master of Florence gestured, and after shaking free from an odd sense of familiarity Ezio followed the man into his stronghold.

Firenze always made him feel like he was still a child, and not the man that wrought bloody vengeance with his own two hands. 

The palazzo was a great structure -magnificent, even- a testament to the Medici wealth and influence. Ezio’s gaze wandered the halls as they walked, roving over fine paintings and sculptures, picking out where the shadows pooled and delicate levers hid among architectural finery. Now that he knew what to look for, he knew the building was just as much a warren as the streets outside. Purposely so. 

Had his father had a hand in this, too? He’d designed their own family home, while it was their family home, and though Ezio had lived in it since before he could remember, before father had finished the renovations, he never suspected the secret room. The entrance to the sewers. Workmen coming and going and he never saw-!

A maid took a sharp breath as she met them at the door to _Il Magnifico’s_ office, her cheeks reddening as she gave a low curtsy. The door had been left open. On the desk, a silver tray sat waiting. Liquid still sloshed in a crystal decanter. “My lords.”

Ezio watched her go, watched the way stray curls had escaped the bun on the back of her head and stuck to her slim neck like ribbons. Had Milana been blonde, or brunette? What was Federico’s preference? All their conversations on the subject had inevitably turned to Cristina, and Ezio’s progress with her. With her father. He should have asked.

But Federico had never fallen for a single lover, not like himself or Claudia, his brother was like a summer wind. There and gone and back again. Never at a woman’s window; always at the brothels. It had been Federico who took him the first time, when his eyes started wandering and his body flushed with new needs that could no longer be mistaken for anything else. Ezio couldn’t remember the girls, or the name of the establishment, it had been very dark and he’d been too embarrassed to look, but his brother had taken him by the shoulder and slipped the florins into his hand. 

_“Always pay them,_ Fratellino."He would never forget his brother’s words, whispered in his ear as teeth shone like tantalizing pearls. _“Always be sure it is_ you _that pays them. Then they’ll make sure you want to come back!”_

“Ezio?”

 _“Mi dispiace, Il Magnifico_. My thoughts have been scattered, of late.” Ezio accepted a glass of wine, rich and dark, and he knew as he turned his gaze upon it only wine languished in the cup. He took a sip, his sister would have his ear if he did not, and settled into a chair that felt like it was made of clouds. He squashed the urge to get up again.

“Tell me, did the little _cazzo_ give you trouble?” Lorenzo was not looking at Ezio, but at his own drink, swirling it in the crystal cup. 

Ezio shook his head. The wine left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. Or maybe that was the memory. “None at all. When you said he was pursuing her, I did not think you meant literally. It was the most brazen, most disgusting thing I have seen in a good while. The poor woman nearly bowled me over in the street in her haste to escape the, I do not want to call him a man. He was more like a beast in rut.”

Lorenzo let out an unamused huff. He took a drink. “And no one did anything. Of course. _Barbarigo._ This is the world they make, where good women may as well be raped in the street and no one bats an eye.”

“I would not say that.” Ezio said. “I did not hear any voices cry out, but I did see a few legs stick out. The creature fell onto my blade more than anything, and no one saw anything they did not wish to see.”

“Fool.”

“Hmm.”

Lorenzo sighed, and there was a ghost of a smile in his eyes when Ezio looked up. “I am sorry, dear Ezio, to involve you in such personal matters. I know Giovanni disliked mixing politics and, ah, business. You said it was a personal matter that brought you back? If there is anyway I can return the favor…?” 

Ezio circled the rim of his cup with a wine wet finger. A very, very soft sound vibrated out. He watched the man from beneath his hood. Was it rude, to keep it up inside, wrapped like a child in a favorite blanket? His father’s hood… his father’s friend. 

Lorenzo burned more gold than blue, but not the sickly, pulsing red-yellow of one who needed to die. Someone to be followed. Watched. Protected?

“I do not know.” Ezio set his wine aside and reached into his robes, into the slight pocket near his breast where he’d kept the letter for safety. “I have recently discovered I may have more family than I thought, but, I am unsure if they remain in _Firenze_. My brother, he fathered a child before his death.”

“Federico?” Lorenzo accepted the short note, skimming the words in seconds before folding it back up. His fingers brushed against the wax seal, cheap, most of it having broken off after so many repeated readings. “It seems we have more in common than I thought, dear Ezio. We have both lost brothers to the Pazzi, and we have both found their children sown among the people like diamonds in the desert.”

“Signore?”

Lorenzo pointed to the remains of the wax seal. A curved shape, bell like, ending in a soft point. “This was a Lilly-of-the-Valley, correct? I recognize the seal. My brother, may he be in God’s keeping, never married. He enjoyed his pleasures, and after our father forbid him from taking his chosen bride one might say he abandoned all pretense of wanting a respectable woman at all.”

There was fondness in Lorenzo’s voice as he continued. “Some might have eloped, but not Guiliano. He loved us too much. That love did not stop him from refusing any marriage that was proposed, though. Stubborn till their deaths, the both of them.”

“I grieve with you Signore, but what has this to do with my family?”

“Everything, at the moment.” Lorenzo stood and handed the letter back to Ezio. He walked over to a small chest and took a key from around his neck. “Guiliano’s favorite brothel was Mughetto _,_ in the Santa Maria Novella district. I have never patronized the place myself, but I know well their reputation for discretion. I would hazard to guess your brother knew it, too.”

Ezio hesitated only a moment before asking, “Did you know my brother well?”

Lorenzo shook his head, once, a cutting motion. “Not well, I am afraid. I know that your father had been training Federico to carry the family legacy, and the boy looked forward to it.” A slight smile graced noble features. “Also, he was a miserable banker. My dear Giovanni often complained of it. I think the incident with the missing florins was more of a message to _him_ than anything else, considering where they were left.” 

Ezio felt the answering smile on his own face grow unbidden. Federico had been oddly pleased about being released from his position with the Medici bank, hadn’t he? Ezio had teased him mercilessly for it, lucky his head full of feathers wasn’t locked in the stocks, but Federico had only grinned and vanished out the nearest window.

“Santa Maria, you say?” Ezio pushed himself to his feet. 

Lorenzo put a hand on Ezio’s unarmored shoulder, the heat of the touch radiating through layers of fabric. His eyes were hot, and dark, and Ezio felt a tingle in his fingers as the purse of silver and gold was placed in his hands. _“Buona fortuna,_ Ezio. It is good to see more Auditore in the world. Perhaps our nephews will continue the friendship our families have known?”

Ezio ducked his head. “Perhaps.”

He then ducked out the door, fleeing as Federico so often did. 

Out the nearest open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse can't decide if Lorenzo wants to bang Ezio or just draw him back to Florence to keep a Family of assassins on retainer. Probably a little bit of both.
> 
> Wanted to put a scene in where Lorenzo talks about how he's 'rescued' a few things from the Auditore palazzo, now that the Pazzi are now longer camping in it like a bunch of jerks, but that started to get really creepy, really fast.
> 
> Also, the assassination discussed is the Zero Tolerance mission and was inspired by my very first play trough of it. I was blending with the crowd, and the lady knocked me to the ground before I even realized she was there, being chased. I got up just in time to accidentally stab the target and then powerwalk in the other direction like I totally meant to do that. Which, as far the NPC's are concerned, I totally did.


	22. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Ezio's over active imagination being porny and coming up with worst possible scenarios. Like miscarriage and stillbirth godly punishments.

Mughetto had a few similarities, and many differences to the brothels Ezio had frequented in the past. It was far less open; no balconies, no open windows, and no silks hung like wagging tongues to tempt the sinful. Even the back garden was more utility than frivolity, with walls of climbing roses to shield hanging laundry from the prying eyes of the street. Discrete was apt.

The red and white sign that swung above the front door tickled some half-formed memory. Had his brother pointed it out, once, with a knowing gleam in his eyes? Federico rarely elaborated on anything, but he was always running errands for father, and if those errands encompassed what he himself now did… 

What would a younger Ezio, unknowing of the harshness of the world, thought of his big brother running about with thieves, killers, and courtesans? It was well known his brother spent his coin at the rate he earned it, taking to a lover’s bed almost as much as his own. It was a simple, assumed fact that could conceal a multitude of greater sins.

There was a boulder in Ezio’s throat.

Federico couldn’t have told him. Even father had delayed the truth -mouth tight and brow furrowed, Federico’s _absence_ leaving Ezio alone to accept the messages from the pigeon coop, from the cutthroat that had laughed at him like he was a lost infant- until all the defeated Assassin had to give was questions and a list of names that only spawned more questions.

Ezio looked down at his gloved hands, at the blood only he could see, and sagged on his bench. “May it never change us, eh, _fratello mio?_ ”

A group of courtesans giggled as they entered Mughetto, unaware of his presence as they cajoled two bemused men to follow. Soft light spilled across the evening’s shadows, accompanied by the sounds of softer voices. Was it his imagination, the flicker of a small body weaving between shapely legs, or a trick of flickering candles and ruffling fabric?

Ezio pushed himself away from the bench, from the dozing beggar he had shared it with, and crossed the street with purposeful strides. And froze. He wavered, hand raised to knock, thoughts tumbling like florins onto the cobblestones. He was going to meet his son -daughter?- and his son’s brother. Cousin?

Which relationship had the primacy? Should he claim them both as his own? 

...did his child’s spirit linger in the birthing bed? Punishment, for his sins, for even if they were not formally married she was still the mother of his brother’s son…

Ezio hid his uncertainties with force, the side of his fist delivering hammer blows to the white washed wood, startling the beggar awake. The clay jar held in his hand shattered as it met the street. A courtesan in pink answered the Assassin with the door swinging as wide as the soulful, black pools of her eyes. Lips like wet rubies parted in surprise before coming together in a gentle, genuine smile. “Messere Ezio, welcome back!”

“I could never stay away from such lovely ladies, Madonna.” Ezio captured her hand and brought it to his lips. Perfumed oil had smoothed old cuts and left her skin shining and supple. The scent of lavender almost, but not quite, overpowered her own earthy nature. Something wound tight in his chest loosened, allowing the whole of him to relax in the ambiguous murmur of the bordello. “Though I confess that tonight I am seeking one woman in particular.”

She pouted, lower lip jutting out as she peered at him beneath long lashes. A woman cried out in wordless pleasure overhead. “Are you sure? I didn’t get to play last time.”

“Sienna,” A familiar voice admonished, and Ezio looked into eyes nearly as bright a blue as Leonardo’s. They even sparkled like his friend’s, and though the hair piled into artful buns atop her head was as black as the night Ezio remembered it intermingling with long golden locks shining like the sun. Shining as bright as Leonardo. 

He’d had the two of them, and they’d had each other, a celebration of _friendship_. 

His brother’s lover had been _blonde._ With sad eyes of polished jade, eyes he’d made it his mission to see light up in joy and pleasure to match the wicked, sinful, promising smile she wore like a mask.

Ezio turned his charm to the dark beauty, curling a finger around a loose curl, giving a grin to match her own. “The feel of your body against mine haunts my dreams like a warm shadow. I could never stay away forever… _caro mio_ , might we all gather together and reprise such a lovely evening?”

Against his own will his ardor stirred at the thought, at the image his memories painted in his mind of the two women bare breasted and entwined. Of his _pene_ buried in one while his tongue plundered the other.

The woman shivered as his voice caressed her skin. She leaned into him, her slight weight pressing against his chest. Every breath made her breasts shift the slightest bit. Teasing. Tempting. They had fit in his palm _perfectly_. “Amara is with another right now, but I don’t believe she will be long. I can bring wine while we wait. Or if you prefer, a bath can be a most rejuvenating prelude to _pleasurable_ company.”

Amara? Ezio snagged her probing hand in both of his before it could discover just how much his body agreed with her suggestions. He kissed her fingertips, her knuckles, the inside of her wrist. “As comely as your sister is-” A woman with hair like fire, if the wine blurred picture his grasping mind offered was correct. “-I was hoping to enjoy _Milana’s_ company.”

The courtesan stilled, her form a painted statue, before the colors cracked around her eyes and her voice lowered to a whisper. “I think, Ser Ezio, you need to speak to the Madame.”

She tried to turn, but his grasp was an iron shackle. He could already feel it in his arms, a tiny body, small, vulnerable, as cold and lifeless as Petruccio… as Federico…

“ _Prego_ , Ser Ezio.” Her pulse was a trapped insect railing against his fingers. The blue of her eyes suffused her whole body. “Not here, Madame Cosima’s chambers.”

There was more gray than blue in the room. Not like La Rosa Colta. The lightest traceries of red were beginning to grow in one man, sitting on a couch with a woman on his knee and a goblet of wine in his hand. Ezio bowed low, theatrical, releasing Frances and allowing his father’s hood to once again hide his too open face. “After you, _Labella._ ” 

She answered his play with a curtsey that raised her already short courtesan’s gown even higher. Humming, her hips became a sensuous metronome as she led him past a beaded curtain, Ezio’s hands fell away from her backside as they left behind the watching eyes of the lounge. 

* * *

His brother squirmed; his tiny, adorable face wrinkling with distress. Altaïr sympathized. Neither of them had eaten since breakfast. Angelo should be feeding far more frequently, as many as five times a day if possible, but the fact of the matter was that Altaïr did not have breasts. His little brother was as yet too young for his belly to easily handle substitutes, where Altaïr was to keep a goat was a problem for the near future, but the situation wasn’t yet so dire as to drive them back to the orphanage.

Altaïr nudged his brother’s satchel, a basket of woven cloth strips that appeared more strap than substance, and allowed his aching muscles a few more moments of rest before making their way to a small crowd of celebrants. Hopefully the men were far enough into their cups that the scent of chicken shit suffused into Altaïr’s clothes wouldn’t be noticed. The Assassin approached from the side, keeping his head low and his brother close as he slipped into the center of the group. A pouch hung loosely from a belt, half open and half remembered, and Altaïr resisted the instinct that came with the sight of it.

His fingernails scraped at his itchy scalp. His brother was lighter than the buckets he’d spent the day hauling to clean what had to have been years of accumulated waste and soiled straw, but exhaustion made it feel as though he were hauling around a cannonball. At least the old man had paid him fairly for the work, not being able to do it himself or convince anyone else to tackle the pit of Tartarus he called a hen hut.

The red faced leader of the marks made a gesture at his own chest, and in the laughter that followed a man nearly walked right over Altaïr. His brother made an unhappy burble at the sudden shift to avoid collision, and Altaïr felt his cheeks heat and his head swim as the hunger and irritability grew. The men were wine-stupid, easy targets, and they deserved it-

“Laura, _amore mio!_ I have returned!”

-but the Assassin needed them. For the moment.

A trio of flowers were standing by the open door of their garden, fanning themselves and their bosoms in the shade of a gauzy awning, turning their attention to the approaching group of men with appreciation. One shut her fan with a loud snap of lacquered wood and painted silk as she sat up, cat like. The smile that stretched across her freckled face was almost cruel. “Rudolpho. _Amore mio._ Have you forgotten?” 

“F-forgotten?” A red faced man said, his spread arms lowering slightly with his confusion. 

“You. Owe. Me.” The flower rubbed her fingers together, right under his nose, then struck him across the face with her fan before stalking through the door. The man’s companions laughed at his plight, following the courtesan as she ignored promises of true love and everlasting devotion. Altaïr crept past feminine sentries, sticking as close as possible to the group until his shields dissolved one by one into the arms of waiting women.

“Oi! Which one of you _idiota_ brought _il bambino!”_

Altaïr stood alone, exposed, in the center of the garden like a dandelion pretending to be more than it was. His fingers twitched, weaving themselves between the gaps of his brother’s satchel. 

It wasn’t Mughetto.

“A little young for the likes of us, aren’t you, _piccolino?”_ A figure made of the palest of blues gasped as Altaïr peered up at her. She reached toward her neck, the motion sudden and instinctive, but she didn’t have what he needed. Altaïr took a step back and surveyed the room with his second sight.

“I can pay as well as anyone.” Altaïr thought of the man still outside, blocked by a wall of flesh and silk and unmoving courtesy. “Better than some.”

Another woman approached, arms crossed and dripping doubt. “And we don’t cater to children. Is this some bet? I can give you a ribbon to show your friends, if you like.”

Altaïr sidestepped grasping hands with the nimbleness that he’d honed on Florentine rooftops. His stomach growled as he dived between the legs of one woman, shifting his brother’s basket to his stomach, rolling and coming up at the unguarded stairs. A flower perched on the balcony, surveying the receiving chamber like a queen, like an eagle, importance lighting her from within like a candle.

A masculine voice boomed cheerfully about knowing what a boy wants.

The regal flower was young, but her breasts were well enough endowed that the padding around them would have been superfluous. Her eyes were wide as he forged up the stairs, pink lips parted in surprise. A bracelet of knotted, wilting flowers hung forgotten around her left wrist.

Altaïr pulled his brother’s satchel to his front, lifting the main body and revealing the babe’s unhappiness in the crook of his arm. Gaze never leaving the sun kissed face of the flower, Altaïr reached beneath his squirming brother to retrieve a good portion of the day’s wages. He was tired and hungry and feet were pounding up the stairs as he pleaded, “For the night.”

“Lucia?” A man’s hand clamped down on Altaïr’s shoulder, and he let it, his own small hand of coins still outstretched.

The flower bit her lip, sighed, before carefully squatting down to take a look at his baby brother. Angelo squinted, eyes the tiniest suspicious slits, before breaking into a smile and squirming with all the adorable energy he could muster in his prison of swaddling. She waved Altaïr’s pursuers off. “It’s fine. Truly. Just for the night?”

Altaïr’s body felt like it was sinking into mud as she lifted his brother free. She cooed at him, standing, one hand delving into her corset and removing a… cabbage leaf? Angelo latched onto her breast with a happy little cry as they walked down the narrow hall to a smaller room. The flower stopped at the door and held up a hand, imperious despite the loud sucking sounds filling the air. “I am not sharing a bed with someone who smells like sweat and shit. Go back downstairs, ask for Gianna. It won’t be warm but it will be clean.”

The blue pulsed, and he could see through the thin door to a small white figure sleeping, oblivious.

“...she’ll see that you get something to eat, too. I won’t have it said we give our patrons any less than our best.”

“ _Grazie,_ Signora.” 

She waved him off, glancing down at his feeding brother with a soft smile. Altaïr kept his awareness on them the whole way down the stairs, until the first bucket of chilled water cascaded over his head. 

He said some very not childish things at that.


	23. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for little shits being little shits and Ezio quickly tripping down the rabbit hole of paranoia. It may be a while before we see him again.
> 
> Note, the only thing Altaïr kills in this chapter is a bunch of jerks pride. His first legit murder is gonna happen soon, though, yes...

Steaming, sudsy water swirled in a great wooden tub, prodded along by a stick worn smooth with time and use. Soiled garments drifted among the soap bubbles; cloth whales surfacing for air before being sucked back down to the depths. Though nothing could stop the whispers from the others, Ezio resolutely kept his gaze on the laundry and not the launderer. Though the Assassin had no experience with how clothing was typically cleaned -Annetta or another servant had taken care of such things, it never seemed important- he doubted the courtesan’s methods were usual. 

There wouldn’t be as much stifled giggling if it was.

“A good boy, our Federico.” Wet, soap slick hands slipped down the stick, fingers drumming along the shaft as she hummed in thought. “Polite. Eager to please. Always knew just how to show his appreciation for a good, hmm, woman.”

Ezio coughed as his own spit caught dangerously in his throat. _“Mi- mio nipote?”_

“O-Oh!” The stick knocked against the lip of the laundry tub, abandoned. The courtesan covered her mouth with splayed fingers as she giggled. Bereft of powders, the dimple that formed beside her grin stood out all the more. “That little devil! Oh, don’t make such a face, Ser Ezio! He takes very much after his father, you know. A good, polite boy. Quiet too. I don’t which Saint took pity on the woman, but you couldn’t ask for a more well-mannered babe. Hardly ever cried.”

“That’s - good?”

“Mmmhmm. Like Madame says, nothing kills _amore_ faster than a crying child.” She rescued the stirring stick and balanced a long wooden board across the top of the tub. Despite Ezio’s best efforts, when she leaned over to scrape a soaked shirt against the board, her own gaped open, pert breasts falling into view. They swayed with every movement, arm pumping as she worked the laundry. “Ser Ezio?”

_“Sì?”_

The courtesan sat up, wringing out the shirt and splashing herself as she did so. Thin, damp linen pressed against her skin, outlining every dip and curve and swell in her body. “I do pray you find them, Ser Ezio, Milana was a dear friend... but if you do not…”

The unspoken suggestion burned like a brand. The Assassin flushed from a potent blend of anger, shame, and want. His child might yet live. The Madame did not know. He might yet have a child in the world and now that the idea had taken root he couldn’t shake free from it. 

Family. 

Precious. His. Irreplaceable.

“Thank you for your time.” Ezio Auditore stood, laughter marking his retreat.

* * *

“Ellow!”

Altaïr grunted his agreement to the proclamation, trying not to open his mouth any more than necessary. He thought he’d have an hour or two to himself in the morning, but while the flower slept with a freshly changed Angelo nestled against her chest the fruit of her own loins refused to leave him be. Even as he rubbed straw against his brother’s soiled swaddling cloths to remove the worst of the infant shit.

The toddler had her hands cupped over her nose as she hid, poorly, behind a planter. “Eye 'ellow?”

Altaïr ignored the question, mostly because he didn’t want to admit he did not know. The lurid colors that came out of an infant’s ass would forever be a mystery and it was one of the few he was happy to leave in the world. Especially when it carried the odor of three day old fish.

“Fedie Rico! Eye! 'ellow!” The question was accompanied by little stomps of her feet as Altaïr discarded the used straw and plunged the square cloth into a bucket of lukewarm water. A righteously requisitioned bar of soap quickly turned that water milky. 

As the linens soaked Altaïr put his damp hands on his hips and swiveled. The toddler let out a squeak and darted back behind her planter. To the Mentor in the Assassin, that simply wouldn’t do. 

“Just because you can’t see me, doesn’t mean I can’t see you.”

Tiny, baby fat fingers curled around flaking wood as her curl topped head breached the side. “See?”

Altaïr nodded sagely, turning back to his daily chore. If she was asking about how to hide and sneak she _wasn’t_ asking about Angelo’s shit.

* * *

Ezio avoided the back garden, but per his agreement with Madame Cosima he was free to question any of her girls so long as they were not entertaining. Or resting. Or the questions he asked strayed into unwelcome territory. So he lurked in the kitchen, early enough that those awake had to be so, and approached a woman that was rumored to be one of the longest running residents of Mughetto _._

“It was bad business all around. Bad luck.” E’Lisa thrust the heel of her palm into a ball of dough, the force behind it enough to shatter a man’s nose and possibly his mind. The dough stretched under her floured hands. “I don’t know if he knew about Milana’s pregnancy. Your brother hadn’t paid a visit in weeks, and then of course the news of the arrest reached us. The shock of it sent her into labor. Madame closed the brothel and didn’t let anyone but the doctor inside.”

The woman paused to tuck away a lock of hair that had escaped her braid. A streak of white joined the unhappy vee on her forehead. “Federico’s birth took hours, the labor lasting well into the next day and then. Bad luck. _Terrible_ luck, for a son to be born the day his father dies. It’s the sort of thing that clings, you know?”

Ezio shut his eyes and forced back the memory of shouting, of the press of people, of the Auditore men -but not _all_ of them, the Templars missed one, missed _two_ \- lined up to die.

“The boy means well.” The courtesan sighed between the muted thuds of her fists, eyes drifting to Ezio before darting back to her baking. “But he’s not. _Well._ Healthy as a fish, climbed near anything he could reach, but _strange._ Not that his mother ever noticed the way he would just stop and stare at things, all quiet like. 

“It is a shame, but I’m not surprised she didn’t find you, Ser Ezio. Woman in her condition shouldn’t have been traveling, and leaving when she did? With the trouble that follows that boy like a favorite hound?”

Ezio bit his own tongue as she clucked hers, head shaking. He’d already learned how narrowly his brother’s lover escaped a miscarriage. How likely his own child would not be well _._ But it was _his_ child. Possibly his only child -though he cringed, inwardly, in terror and longing at the thought of more- if his work saw him into a grave of his own before it was done. 

They were not trying to be cruel. The courtesans of Mughetto were pragmatic to the point it hurt; their honesty a spear thrust to his heart. 

If he wanted soft, pretty lies, he should have come at night with the coin to pay for them.

* * *

Sometimes, when work was sparse and the day was long, Altaïr picked a bridge and sat. He had to be careful where he did so; too close to the bridge and the city guard would chase him away, while sitting too far would mean no one would see the small boy and his beggar bowl. It was one of those days.

Altaïr let the heat and humidity lull him into complacency as the sun burned high in the sky and his eyes dropped. His brother was long lost to dreams; a rare lunch earned through helping scrub silt from a formerly flooded basement for a heavily expectant mother-to-be sitting comfortably in both their stomachs. The coolness of a shadow brushed against the sleepy Assassin’s dirt smeared cheek, ruining his rest. 

“What do you think you’re doing, _monello?”_ Said a boy twice Altaïr’s age, though his clothing was just as worn. “You want to work our street, you gotta pay a toll, _capisci?”_

The older boy had others with him, and one squatted down to claim the pair of copper _soldo_ Altaïr had seeded his begging bowl with. He sneered at the pitiful amount of coin before tucking it somewhere in his shirt like a feral dog hiding a bone.

“Pathetic! Are you _stupido?_ ” The little Abbas said. He bounced on his feet, jittery, while the Assassin counted heads. “Maybe if I break your nose people will take pity on you, get us some real silver. Would you like that, _monello?_ Or maybe you could put that pretty face to use? Is that what you do? Why _le puttane_ let you in their houses? Are you one?”

“You shouldn’t call them that.” If he couldn’t see the steady burn of blue on the small form, he might have thought his brother had stopped breathing. Altaïr tugged his brother’s satchel closer as he looked past the circle of street urchins to the sea of uninterested gray. “It’s rude.”

Unfortunately, the movement drew the attention of the rest of the pack. A boy that might have been blond once upon a time sneered as he drew out a question. “What’s in the bag, _puttana?”_

Their leader’s eyes narrowed along with his mouth, gesturing at the woven sack. “I bet it’s worth _something_. Worth enough for the toll? Give it here _._ ”

_“Va bene.”_

Altaïr’s eyes burned as he slid his knife free from the sheath that he’d worked into Angelo’s satchel. 

The Assassin had picked an excellent spot.

No guards were near enough to hear the screams for mercy. 

* * *

Ezio felt more tired than anything as he left one brothel to head for another. There was a good distance between Mughetto and La Rosa Colta, and it was a distance he felt reasonably comfortable with taking slowly. A small portion of the guilt he felt at abandoning his nephew had eased, only to be replaced by a larger helping of concern.

Despite his origins, little Federico was much loved -the ugly cloth doll the wide eyed courtesan had pressed on him sat like a lead weight in his medicine pouch- and well cared for. If his own brother had not known -entirely possible, between his own wanderings and Federico helping with father’s investigations he’d barely seen either of them outside dinner- then it wasn’t a reflection of his own inadequacy that he had not. But why not seek him out after? 

_She was afraid, Ser Ezio._

_Afraid? Of what -who!?_

He could still see the letter, written by the Madame and not an illiterate courtesan, tapping against her desk. _She loved Federico. She knew Federico. She knew next to nothing of you - a boy, not yet a man, that murdered in broad daylight and challenged all of Firenze as the heart’s blood pooled at his feet._

 _Federico was never so blatant._

What had she meant by that? Had Federico been more than his father’s apprentice? Signore Lorenzo had implied as much. To be sure he couldn’t remember his older brother _ever_ being the worst off after a brawl, and Federico happily collected spoils without a care to what witnesses might say, but to be _killing?_

Father would say chess, and life, was about anticipating your enemies. Federico would lure Ezio’s king into checkmate and say it was about misdirection. The courtesans had said plenty, both in what they would comment on and what they would _not._

“A little demon.” Ezio muttered to himself, wondering again at how much of little Federico’s father had bred true. Ezio had been the only one of his generation to inherit the Gift that their grandfather possessed, but it skipped, sometimes. “A little Auditore…”

By the time he reached _La Rosa Colta_ the sun was well into its descent and Ezio felt indecision drag at his ankles. He owed Paola much; she had harbored his family and taught him how to survive on the street. To go unnoticed and keep himself fed. Skills the Assassin kept sharp in his time hunting conspirators and culling traitors from Antonio’s ranks. And yet… surely, if anyone would have known of his brother’s child, she would?

But hiding women among other women was so much simpler, was it not? And had Ezio failed in his mission to kill Uberto, had he not the skills Federico had badgered him into learning with races and dares, he might not have survived it. 

Had Paola known that, too? Counted on it? He’d planned to go after the traitorous Gonfaloniere either way, but it was her lessons that allowed him to reach the man and drive his father’s blade home. Had Uberto been the one to burn her - as a witch? Had she only meant to hone him as the weapon of her own revenge?

Did it matter?

Ezio stepped away from the warm, welcoming brothel and back into the shadows.


	24. Chapter Twenty 1/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets pretty damned dark. It has been a long week. Warnings for Marital Neglect, implied Miscarriage, Depression, Non-Con, and Baby's First Murder.

Work was work, and so long as it paid Altaïr was willing to put in the effort. He glanced up from his darning to check the laundry. It all fluttered like colorful flags on the lines he’d strung between the buildings, tripling his output, though Madonna Rossi had been very pale when he’d made it back down. He agreed to (carefully _bambino!_ ) remove the extra lines before the day was out; the woman was weakened by _miseria_ and would not be able to make use of them herself.

Madonna Rossi’s goat was attempting to snap at a length of pale green hose, but between the tether at its neck and Altaïr’s eye for judging distance it couldn’t quite make it. Angelo’s satchel hung from a shaded peg, and his little brother watched the sisyphean ordeal with a wide eyed, delighted horror. As a pink tongue tried to cross the last few inches his brother shrieked, and the Assassin went back to his needlework.

It was simpler than sewing shut a wound, almost meditative, and soon enough his basket was empty and folded, freshly repaired or re-sized clothes awaited delivery. Altaïr was surveying his work when a knock sounded from within Madonna Rossi's home, dust rattling free from the doorframe. _“Sì?”_

The Assassin pulled open the door to see a tray spilling over with food, the woman's face a red, puffing cherry on top. She shuffled into the minimal courtyard and over to a washing tub Altaïr had upturned for drainage. The tray landed like a hammer. A wheel of cheese escaped and rolled toward Altaïr's feet.

“There!” She announced, hands on hips, satisfied. “Dinner, as promised.”

Altaïr eyed the masterfully stacked bowls and plates. His mouth watered shamefully as he held the cheese wheel to his chest. “I don’t think I can eat all of that.”

“No?” The satisfaction slipped away, like rain disappearing into the thirsty earth, the weight on her soul reasserting itself. Altaïr felt a portion of that weight lodge in his throat, and he swallowed as he went to release the ties that kept his baby brother from falling out and onto his face. 

Trading empty baby for empty bowl, Altaïr piled his with pasta cooked for hours in broth and butter. Half a chicken stuffed with bread and herbs soon joined it. Vegetables based in some sort of sauce. Pesto. And hummus! _Proper_ hummus; not the bean spread.

Altaïr sat on the hard packed earth with his bowls, one for hummus and one for everything else, while Madonna Rossi bared a single, swollen breast and sighed as his brother began to feed. She stroked the tiny head that was only now gaining its full complement of rich, brown hair. 

“Will Messere Rossi be joining us?” Altaïr asked around a mouthful of chicken and delicious hummus.

The woman didn’t appear to hear the question. She sighed again, forlorn gaze on something beyond Altaïr. “If my Isabella survived, she would be your age.” 

Angelo stopped sucking, instead letting out a sharp cry and smacking his little fist against the giving flesh of the breast. The Madonna startled, mind focusing back on the present, and with apologies she rocked his brother, encouraging him to eat more. She took a piece of fruit for herself once he did so. “Ah, I apologize, my husband will not be joining us for dinner. He works very late, why, sometimes I go days without seeing him.”

The lie was written into her trembling smile, the drift of her eyes. She hadn’t wanted them inside her home. The brief peeks in windows and past the closing door had revealed empty bottles, dusty furniture, and housework that had long since been abandoned.

When the sun began to set she saw them off with a sack of leftovers, two silver _lire_ , and a near desperate promise of more work should he ever need it.

The reborn Assassin silently promised that if ever came across her husband, he would _beat_ responsibility into the man. 

* * *

Madonna Rossi was no flower, she had neither the graces nor beauty such women cultivated, but she found her patrons among the soldiers, sailors, and shipwrights that populated the Castello District all the same. Everyone, no matter how slovenly, needed their linens washed and brawl born rips mended. 

Altaïr still hadn’t managed to track down her wandering husband.

Altaïr’s fist squeezed around the strap at his shoulder, imagining the _cazzo’s_ throat in its place. She would be better served with him gone. Permanently. He could make it look like an accident; the heralds took vicious pleasure describing drunk gondoliers falling off their boats never to be seen again. Then the woman could remarry someone nice and attentive. Maybe a widower with children of his own. 

She would like that.

The wind picked up, carrying faint screams with it.

“No! _Basta!”_

Altaïr turned mid-step, foregoing the rope bridge and pacing back along the raised edge of a rooftop as a flex of will shifted the sky from warm desert tones to washed out grays. Angelo babbled in his ear. His baby brother had finally gained back the weight he’d lost during those first few weeks on their own, though he still didn’t have healthy rolls of fat.

“Get! Off! Me! _Aiutami!”_ The femine shout cut off in a whimper. Altaïr broke into a sprint, tiny hands gripping his hair as he jumped, his own fingers clawing for purchase as he scrambled over boarded windows and forgotten ledges.

“I said I don’t like screamers.” 

Two forms swam into view, becoming clearer with every step. Febrile red smothering frightened cerulean. Bird droppings smeared beneath his feet as Altaïr shrugged free of one strap, swung his brother around, and dived off the roof. As always, the piled straw welcomed him home with a silent embrace. 

“Signora pays her fees. You can’t do this… AH!” 

“And who would believe a little _puttana_ like you? Who would even think to look for your corpse?”

The flower whimpered again, breath coming in gasps as a dagger danced at her throat. Her skirts were flipped up, one arm twisted painfully behind her back as she was bent tellingly over a packing crate.

_“...il diavolo vi porti.”_

Altaïr trembled, jaw aching, as the thief drove his dagger into the crate, dangerously close to his victim’s face. She screamed, tears breaking free as the _bastardo_ ground himself against the exposed woman. The Assassin approached, his own blade heavy and hungry in his hand.

As the thief plucked a purse from between the flower’s breasts, Altaïr struck. His blade had been tested on hard leather. Breeches, skin, and muscle parted like the Red Sea before the Prophet. Blood and screams spilled out, but they served the cretin no better than they had the flower. Worse.

Unable to support himself, the hamstrung man slid off his prey and into the Eagle’s waiting embrace. His scarf only stopped the blood from splattering on the lady’s dress. Within seconds the panicked grip on Altaïr’s sleeve slackened, the man’s rapidly beating heart having worked against him to soak the straw strewn alley in his own lifeblood.

The Assassin wiped his blade clean on the back of the dead man’s shirt.

The courtesan had slid down to the ground herself, was pressing into the wall beside the crate, tears tracking like diamonds down her face as she stared at him. Altaïr’s toes flexed, unseen in his shoes, looking away as he blinked the world back to normal.

The corpse’s final words had been inconsequential gibberish not worth remembering. 

He headed back to his landing area and dug through the straw till he found an adorably frowning and burbling Angelo. He quickly padded back across the street to the flower, now struggling to stand, and offered his brother with the same stern expression he’d used on his most mischievous of novices.

“Angelo is very good at cuddling.”

His brother’s angry squint broke into a giggle and a grin, arms making grabby motions, and the flower accepted with a confused blink. There was a drop of red trailing down her neck where a ribbon had been, the circle of skin there just a tiny bit paler than the rest of her. She looked down at the smiling baby and whispered in a daze, “I think he peed.”

“He’s good at that, too.” Altaïr began searching the body for valuables.

He ignored the great gulps of air that sounded behind him as the woman, safe, let herself break down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond: Man, I hate being carted around like someone's luggage. This so boring ahhhh so fast! What's happening?!  
> Altaïr: *leap of faith KILLINGINTENT*  
> Desmond: Oh FUCK. I knew you were weird, big bro, but WTF. That guy is like three times your size! What would happen to me if you- oh. Oh. No. Crying lady, uh, uh, LOOK I AM CUTE AND ADORABLE AND DON'T LOOK AT THE BLOODY CORPSE IN THE CORNER. *waves baby arms dramatically* There there, he's a sweetheart, really, not a demon. I promise. Give him some lemons and he's putty in your hands.


	25. Chapter Twenty 2/2

Altaïr dreamed of Masyaf. It was one of the better ones. His wife stood across from him, her strength and nobility marked by the braid that circled her head like a crown, like a halo, her fierce gaze catching his and holding fast. She never simpered. Never looked away. She plowed him into the ground; when their only weapons were their bodies, Maria’s superior reach and stamina won the spar every time.

She wore a smirk as she towered over him, dominate. He lay in the sand, content. It was warm, and soft, and his wife’s visage was something that only came in bits and pieces when awake. In the dream she seemed remarkably whole and familiar. She raised her foot and nudged him playfully with her toe, as if testing for life. He let his head roll, muscles slack, at the prodding of his cheek. 

She huffed, nudged him again. His head rolled again, and this time he stuck out his tongue.

The third time, despite the expression on her perfect self never changing, the motion was insistent and almost painful.

Altaïr opened his eyes and caught the tiny hand of his baby brother before it could jab his cheek a fourth time. Angelo was red faced and naked, swaddling kicked out of sight, and it wasn’t even sunrise yet. Altaïr narrowed his eyes at little escapee. “Not nice, _Fratellino.”_

His brother responded by blowing a spit bubble that popped and scattered droplets all over them both. As the brother’s glared at one another, voices drifted up from between floorboards. 

“...a child, Signora!”

“Like the _Assassino_ is _just_ a man? Pah!”

The Assassin felt his back stiffen involuntarily, a feather of disgust tickling the back of his throat. Frowning, he peered through the dim light cast by a single, guttering candle and kneaded at the silk sheets beneath him. He’d escorted the flower back to her garden, and on arrival her sisters had circled like a particularly beguiling honor guard, concealing them from patrons as they were escorted to a still warm bath and later a warmer bed.

His clothes were missing, as was any bedmate but his brother. 

There was, however, a concentration of pale blues and creams on the floor below. One sprawled lazily and burned with a corona of gold, while her inner self rotated through various shades of alliance. Altaïr slid off the bed, silk sinfully smooth against his skin, and made measured steps toward the door.

Angelo let out a distressed cry before he could open it. When Altaïr looked back his brother was valiantly fighting to drag himself across the slick bedding as the voices rose and fell, timber and volume changing with each speaker. 

“...cuts were clean. Lucia and Catalina distracted the patrol while the rest of us moved the body.”

“Not that it was necessary. _Some_ one had taken the time to cover it in packing straw; I’d bet a week’s wages the _bastardo_ would have been found by the stench of his rotting corpse before any friends went looking.”

The near delirious laugh that answered the statement didn’t sooth the snake coiling in Altaïr’s belly. 

They were talking about _him._

 _“Merde.”_ Altaïr’s musings stalled as he ran back to the bed, wincing as a floorboard squeaked, to catch his brother before he killed himself. The weight in his arms was negligible but pleased. The Assassin narrowed his eyes at his baby brother, scolding and supporting him at the same time, “Tsk. You cannot be Leaping, _Fratellino_ , not when you can barely crawl. Now,” he placed a quick kiss on the top of his baby’s head. “ _Kun hadian._ ” 

* * *

Desmond barely noticed his brother and primary caregiver taking the time to slowly, soundlessly shut the door on the luxurious room behind them as he was distracted with parsing the very much not Italian words that accompanied the pressure -a kiss!- on his head. And the phrasing.

It was stupid, but for one panicky moment he’d imagined Federico’s unique, familiar palette disappearing out the door and _not coming back._ He hadn’t been able to stop the scream -Federico in chains, an overlay of a two brothers on one scaffold, of not being able to move- and he’d pushed forward with no real idea of what he was doing or why until the rush of gravity pulled him down into his brother’s arms.

Of course it was stupid. He _felt_ stupid. It was the sound of courtesans moving and whispering in the hall that had woken him -he napped more than he slept- and in turn he’d alerted Federico to the gathering as best he could. After all, his brother had _murdered_ a man. Allegedly. Desmond hadn’t seen a thing, and not for lack of trying. 

Still, even if the guy deserved it -he’d seen fading wisps of red if nothing else- he could understand how some people might be unsettled by a killer child. Hell, it bothered Desmond in an abstract sort of way -mostly on the _how_ \- but Federico held him and rocked him and sang when the nightmares came. Who by all sane measure should have abandoned him to the care of others, but didn’t. 

And Desmond did not want to go back to the orphanage. His brother, whatever else he was, wanted him. It was a tangible feeling that wrapped around him as warm as the arms now carrying him like a little girl hugging her teddy bear.

Had Federico’s father been an Assassin? He’d always found it a little weird that only Ezio’s family wore Assassin White when so many others also claimed the title. Paola, Theodora, Uncle Mario was Mario and could be excused, though he supposed most of the Italian Brotherhood at least wore _a_ hood of some kind… maybe it had to do with their jobs? A lady in robes and weapons running a brothel would have looked awfully suspicious.

“You didn’t see it!” A man hissed, loudly, his voice moving down the hallway like scattered birdshot. Desmond felt his brother tense and press his back into the wall, Desmond himself grunting as his brother’s arm became a steel bar across his stomach. “I lost one of my best patrons when that, that thing passed over the balcony, _il Assassino_ in its grip. I’ve never known a man to lose his virility so quickly.”

“It can’t have been an actual demon, though. Surely the Church-”

“The Church is a bloated corpse. I’ve seen enough godly men come through my doors to know that.” A woman laughed, but she had no cheer in her. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the _stronzetto_ laid claim to a tome of Solomon’s own while in _Seta_.”

“Signora!” Was accompanied by gasping cries of, “Madame!” and “Gianna!”

“Hfmp. I don’t care if it was a demon or a phoenix or some other creature his pet killer tamed. I pay _il dono_ every month. It is _my_ girls, _our_ girls, that ferret out the times of raids and pass along the warnings. All of that… and for this?! Giacomo! How is our dear Emilia?” 

A boy’s voice, surprised and soft and barely audible from their position answered. “Oh, a bit hysteric, still, so I gave her some sleeping draught.”

There was a loud click of a cup being pointedly placed. “Sleeping, now. And if the _passerotto_ had not come by, flitting here and there as he does? Sleeping forever, maybe. Antonio could stop this, he _should_ stop it, but he doesn’t care to. He thinks himself a lord, above the rest of us with his books and his grudges, but he’s a bottom feeder of the worst sort. Why are we paying him?”

Desmond gnawed on his tongue with a gummy mouth as the argument escalated. Antonio, if it was the Antonio he knew of, was running a protection racket of sorts. Which made sense, as leader of the Venetian thieves guild and an Assassin it all went hand in hand but… Ezio had killed a lot of Venetian thieves, hadn’t he, in comparison? But they had been Templar spies, one and all.

Another woman, Lucia, made a comment and another Lucia from another time appeared gray and lifeless on the floor. Desmond dragged his eyes away from the body as half forgotten words cluttered his ears. _Let’s see just how talented you are._

Desmond tilted his head up. 

His brother was a study in contrasts. Expression placid and blank, but each muscle in his body was a drawn bow, and his eyes… Desmond sucked in a breath. Sulfuric yellow, as though someone had filled Federico’s head full of fireflies and they all flashed at once. Was that what Eagle Vision looked like, from the outside? Wouldn’t someone have told him?

Or was it another hallucination, triggered by Federico’s general Federico-ness?

“Shameful.” His brother whispered over his head, inching closer to a room so full a few courtesans were stuck hovering around the doorway. The whispers were dying down, and it didn’t seem like anyone was arguing to call the guards. 

“We all do what we must. I have turned my family home into a house of whores in the name of necessity, but I won’t be giving the _stronzetto_ a single ducat more.” A woman stood, her dress fine if a little worn, running thin fingers through frazzled hair as she swayed in place. “I bid you all good night, and my thanks, Madame Bianca, for your woman.”

Another lady, presumably Bianca, with fewer wrinkles and a much lower neckline nodded. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t want the little darling to go hungry…”

The rest of the exchange was lost as his brother darted away to avoid the crush of women and a handful of men leaving the meeting. Back in bed, his brother very angrily fluffed a pillow. It was a wonder feathers didn’t go everywhere.

Desmond briefly entertained the thought of setting an Ezio trap with a bunch of feathers. It made him giggle. 

“You aren’t a kid, are you, _fratello mio?”_ Desmond had wanted to say, but his infantdom betrayed him once more, lack of coordination and teeth resulting in a spew of vowels that were as intelligible as a drunkard's ramblings. 

* * *

The second time Altaïr woke, the sun had fully risen and his clothes were neatly folded on a chair, still damp and smelling faintly of vinegar. He wasn’t alone in the room. His little brother was sleeping, a line of milk crusting down the side of his wide open mouth as a flower rocked him.

“You are a very clever boy, aren’t you?” The Signora called, closing the book she’d been reading with a curling smile that hid her teeth. Loops of gold glinted at her ears. “And you love your brother, too, don’t you?”

Altaïr pulled his shirt over his head with a frown. It was enough of a question on it’s own.

A flash of pink along her upper lip, and the Signora looked ten years younger. She leaned forward, folding herself over her knees as she gave a conspiratorial whisper. “I have a little brother, too, all the family I have left after some… poor investment decisions, on our father’s part. Of course I would do anything to keep him safe.”

Angelo yawned, lips smacking as he stretched in the flower’s arms. Assassin and Madame turned to look at him.

“In that vein,” Signora continued. “I was wondering if you might be amiable to an arrangement.”

Altaïr stared at her truest self, at the storm clouds of gray roiling through blues so dark they were practically black. Gold whipped around her aura in lightning strikes. Thinking back to the meeting he’d listened in on during the night, Altaïr gave the slightest nod as he buttoned his vest.

Her smile would kill a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was going to be entirely Altaïr's POV but since everyone liked Desmond's short blurb from the last chapter... *shrug* A much more formal and steady relationship between the Demon Child and the Brothels is now established.
> 
> Not sure how I did on the Arabic, phonetically spelling since I don't want to guess what Arabic script would do to my formatting, it's supposed to be 'Be quiet'.
> 
> Also, I might be a tiny bit biased when it comes to Antonio. I just do not like this man. I don't think he's a purposeful asshole, but he's very much a grade A asshole. Which, in this fic, has consequences. Altaïr isn't going to kill him though. Just hassle and maybe murder his underlings.


	26. ART

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never realized how hard it was to draw a baby until I actually tried to draw a baby.


	27. Chapter Twenty One

As youthful as his body was, when Altaïr rose after hours of scouring caked dust and mold from broken and exposed timber he felt like an old man again. His knees ached from being pressed to the wood flooring, his hands had pruned from rag and bucket, and his back sighed with relief as he straightened himself. The rag joined its brothers beneath the opaque gray water with a _plop_ where it would finish disintegrating in safety and peace. 

Altaïr wiped his hands on his breeches and surveyed his work. There were no windows, but sunlight poured in excess between lightning splintered beams. The first thing he had done, after clearing a space for Angelo, was sweep aside all the broken tiles and other detritus. According to the Signora, who had heard from one of her girls, who had heard from a _compagno_ in the Dosoduro district, the home was a point of petty legal contention between two feuding factions of a family and neither one wanted to be responsible for repairs if the courts eventually awarded it to the other.

However; at the current bribe-less speed the Venetian courts were moving on the matter repairing the building would likely surpass what it was worth.

Which made it perfect for Altaïr’s purposes.

The reborn Assassin stretched, arms rising high as his heels followed, before collapsing back down with a satisfied grunt. He left watery impressions of his bare feet as he padded to the nest he’d made for Angelo: old clothes, tattered blankets, and a handful of beaten pillows all piled together. His little brother lay on his back, one fist in his mouth, wide eyed expression fixed as he stared up at the sparrowhawk perched on a wooden frame of… something. It was missing parts, so Altaïr couldn’t be sure if it had been an easel or a loom or something else entirely. 

Hearing his approach, Maria’s head swiveled toward him. Her beak opened to emit the high pitched, clipped tones of greeting. 

“ _Salaam Alaikum_ , Maria.” Altaïr answered, gaze warm as the huntress preened, feathers momentarily fluffing. His little brother made a sound of surprise and wiggled, gamely attempting to flip himself over. Before he could strain himself, and maybe explode from the effort, Altaïr plucked his brother from the bedding and resettled him in the Assassin’s own lap. Maria hopped down from her perch, head tilting sideways in a mirror to the babe’s own. “This is Maria, _Fratellino_. She is my good friend and is head of the family if I am not available.”

Altaïr did not expect the high pitched exclamation that erupted from his little brother at the pronouncement, nor the sudden squirming as Angelo attempted to turn, his tiny face pinched as he stared up at his brother. It reminded him of Darim being told he couldn’t have honeyed dates to break his fast. Altaïr narrowed his eyes at the suddenly suspect infant. “This is non-negotiable, _Fratellino.”_

Angelo huffed, arms crossing as he went back to staring at the hawk, lower lip jutting out mulishly.

Altaïr reached for a plank of wood to use as a desk, balancing it across his knees while giving his little brother something to brace against, and asked Maria to drag over Angelo’s satchel so he could retrieve his writing tools. As Maria soared through the hole in the roof in search of her own meal (a pigeon, probably, there were so many littering street corners and rooftops the city had put a bounty on the things) Altaïr unscrewed his inkwell and frowned.

Though there had been little enough to begin with, at some point the ink had gone dry. And quality ink was expensive.

“I suppose there is no help for it…” Licking the end of his quill, Altaïr propped his chin in his hand and began to write. Though keeping track of filled pages was more difficult this way, with or without ink his musings were, as always, his own.

He barely noticed the way Angelo’s eyes tracked the feather as it skimmed across the paper, most likely entertained by the movements of the thing.

* * *

**W** e have established a temporary base. Though I do not think the flowers would mind offering a more permanent residence, to do so would endanger both them and ourselves. Angelo is still too young to look after himself, and as such is the ideal hostage. I cannot and will not risk our movements becoming known.

 **T** he lessons with the flowers have not gone as poorly as one would expect. Though few among their number have true knowledge and experience, the harsh reality of the world means they all carry simple daggers and have some level of proficiency in handling them. The difficult part has been teaching them what to do when they do not have a blade at hand, which, considering their usual state when working, is often.

 **A** proper blade, hidden, would do wonders but lacking forge and leatherworks I must make do with the basics. Holds, pressure points, soft tissues… 

**M** ost of what I can impart is the importance and methods of flight, of escaping a hold, of blinding an enemy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arabic is supposed to be 'Peace be upon you'. Altaïr's relationship with religions is complicated at best but I thought this greeting was pretty much the essence of the 'safety and peace' that Assassin's use to work. Desmond is collecting all the clues. And even if/when it does come out that Desmond isn't a 'baby'... 
> 
> Altaïr: *pats Desmond's head* You realize, even counting your past life experience... I'm _still_ older than you, _Fratellino_. Respect your elders. *is smug*


	28. Chapter Twenty Two

The painting had barely changed over the course of the month. Leonardo stood, arms crossed, observing how even the light of the dying fire failed to add any warmth, any spark of life, to his patron’s betrothed. It was not, by any standards, a bad painting. Signora Isabella sat, the very soul of pride and dignity, a red velvet dress contrasting with the pale cream of her skin and slowly giving way to vague charcoal outlines of animals in repose at her feet. She was lovely. Saint Lucia come again. Just like a hundred other portraits he’d assisted with in Maestro Andrea’s studio.

Leonardo sighed, leaving his workroom for the small kitchen and the wine stored within. He’d thought establishing his own reputation would allow him more freedom. At least Signora Isabella wasn’t the type to send messengers to his door demanding to know of his progress. Though the artist had never been one to pay too much attention to politics, he was fairly certain the woman was simply pleased to be able to tell all her _friends_ that he was staying in Venezia at her invitation. Or her Soon-to-be-Husbands. Either, or.

Leonardo found a bottle his assistants had forgotten, raised it to his ear to listen for the swish of wine, and decided there wasn’t enough to merit dirtying cup. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a drink.

There was _nothing_ wrong with the painting.

And yet there was _everything_ wrong with it. He looked into the eyes, eyes that should have made men burn with lust, and felt _nothing_. He could not, in good conscience, call it ready. He would be lying to himself if he did.

Leonardo pinched the wine bottle between his fingers, dangling it like an awkward and heavy string. Perhaps he was simply… tired. His work at the Arsenal had ceased to be fulfilling after the second month; luckily most of that had progressed to the point the shipwrights could take over. And as much as his curiosity burned for it, he hadn’t dared try to rescue his flying machine from the waters or improve on the design in anything but his dreams.

Leonardo took another drink, draining the last of the wine with one long pull and nearly killing himself in the process. The artist sputtered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and hurried to the door before whoever was knocking so insistently with their fist decided to use an axe. “I am here! I am coming, just a moment!”

Genius that he was, Leonardo slid back the bolt but not the secondary lock he’d installed himself. The door only opened so far as to get a foot in, and Leonardo peered through the gap with a quiet gasp. “Ezio! You are-” He would have said _returned_ , but the spark of joy flailed confusedly in his heart. “Drunk.”

Madonna Maria’s son shifted his weight from foot to foot like a guilty child. “‘M not.”

Ezio was a terrible liar. If not for the hood, his expressions would give the game away every time. Leonardo stifled a chuckle and closed the door, quickly unlatching the secondary lock so he could embrace the younger man. “Come in, come in out of the cold, _amico mio._ I cannot say I was expecting you, but your presence is most welcome all the same.”

“You expect me?” The words came slowly, but with more thought than drink should have allowed.

“Well, not as such.” Leonardo slid the bolt into place and turned back to his Assassin and the controlled chaos of the studio. He gave a whimsical smile, gesturing with one hand. “It is only, there is usually a bit of commotion preceding your visits. Rumors. Bodies in the streets. Shouts of _Assassino!_ ”

Perhaps there had been more wine in the bottle than he’d thought. Ezio’s cheeked colored, gaze darting away with an exhale of understanding. The Assassin started a slow circuit of the room, gloved fingers trailing along a table covered in tools and loose sketches. Leonardo followed a few steps back, admiring the way shoulders had grown to fill the white robes. So different from the boy he’d met years ago... 

The thought came unbidden, and was banished almost immediately. Ezio came to a stop at the portrait of Madonna Isabella, and it was the artist’s turn to sway with discomfort. He could see it, couldn’t he? Ezio had just as good an eye for art as his mother. “Ah, she is yet incomplete. Capturing such a woman has proven far more difficult-”

“I have another codex page.” Ezio said, instead, and removed a carefully folded piece of parchment from a pouch at his waist. Flecks of faded blood decorated the edge.

“Truly? Oh, _Ezio_ , you give me the best gifts…” Leonardo eagerly reached to take it, his lethargy vanishing at the thought of another puzzle, but instead found his wrist gripped tight. The Assassin leaned forward, practically pulling Leonardo’s body to him like a lover, and his eyes-!

Ezio’s breath was sour with the vine, his gaze ringed with exhaustion but no less _intent._ A log broke in the fireplace and sparks flew, flame danced, and for half a moment Leonardo thought he saw a glimmer, primal and impossible, in the rich depths of Ezio’s gaze. Those impassioned eyes widened as if in surprise, all the more lovely for it, and his friend’s head tilted to the side as a smile grew with a whispered, “ _Bello…_ ”

“E-Ezio…” Leonardo stuttered along with his poor heart. The man was drunk.

Leonardo, unfortunately, was not drunk enough.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , Leonardo.” Ezio released Leonardo’s wrist and rocked back, and raising a hand to scratch the back of his head. The hood came down, and it was an embarrassed boy in his studio and not a trained, experienced, infamous killer. “I just… I had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” Turning into the firelight and away from the source of his own heated face, Leonardo unfolded the codex page and examined it. He tried not to show the immediate wave of disappointment that came at seeing the parchment’s lack of text. 

“It’s nothing.”

Leonardo hummed his disbelief as he turned the page over, thinking.

“...did you know my father?”

“Messere Giovanni? Only by reputation, I’m afraid.” A reputation that had been, at the time, more confusing than anything else. Though it was true Leonardo had never met the man before his unfortunate and unjust execution, he was well aware that Giovanni had been investigating some other matter on behalf of the Medici and in the course of such turned up a suspicious _lack of_ testimony in regards to his own case. A happy accident, though after repairing Giovanni’s broken blade perhaps no accident at all. “Ezio, it is an interesting work, but there is nothing here for me to decode.”

“What do you mean? Of course there is.”

Leonardo sighed, placing the yellowed parchment on the table so that the woman’s portrait faced up. She wore a hooded cloak and tabard with a cross on the breast, an interesting choice for a woman, her expression severe. The drawing was very basic, little more than a sketch, but even so Leonardo could feel the _soul_ that went into it. So much more than his Saint Isabella. Ezio peered down at her and pointed to a spot free of ink. “There. Her name is… Maria Thorpe. I think.”

“Ezio…” He could be drunk. He could be _beyond_ drunk. And yet, Ezio did so many things that should have been impossible. To see beneath the underneath… like an artist preparing a canvas for use, revealing the old work buried under layers of new… Leonardo rifled through pages of sketches and notes before finding a mostly blank sheet. He placed it beside the parchment along with an inkpot, quill, and excited smile. “Copy what you see, and I will work from that.”

Ezio’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red, and this time Leonardo was certain it was not his own drink addled wits behind it. 

He tried to pretend, as he hovered over his friend’s shoulder to read each word as it was written, that his heart was pounding in anticipation of a good mystery and not the warmth of the man at his side.

* * *

They adjourned to the kitchen, where the table wasn’t covered in spilled paint and wood shavings and the scent of tinctures and solvents didn’t aggravate his throbbing head. Ezio had found some week old bread, hard enough to break teeth, but soaking it in a bowl of wine soon made it edible if not palatable. The Assassin sat in a padded chair and tried not to fall asleep as he watched Leonardo work with the transcribed text.

Something low in his stomach clenched, unhappy, and he pushed the bread away. 

He must look as horrible as he felt, because the sound of the bowl scraping against the table was enough to pull Leonardo from his musings and the blond inventor glanced at him with a small frown. He put his charcoal aside, blue eyes rich with concern. “Ezio, what ails you? Surely it is not this codex page.”

The codex page with a Templar on it. Ezio glared at the offensive parchment. Who was she? An enemy long dead, no doubt, and an important one if _the_ Mentor thought to recreate her image. It was a strange feeling, almost like falling, the thought that he and Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad might share a propensity for… art. 

Ezio sighed, leaning his head back on the chair and staring at the ceiling. “No, Leonardo, it is not the codex page.”

He shouldn’t be angry at some woman in the past. Even if she was a Templar.

It wasn’t her fault his son was missing -possibly stolen- and he was likely going mad with worry. How did he not even realize he was using his gift? And earlier, after he’d stormed out of the _Ospedale_ he’d taken watch on a building across from the Palazzo Ducale and he thought, for a bare instance of time, he would have sworn he’d seen a fellow Assassin.

Pale robes like his father’s - _exactly_ like his father’s- walking behind the pillars with a painfully familiar gait. A guard he hadn’t noticed -sloppy, what would Federico say?- bent down behind the Assassin, picking up a single, shining, gold coin, and before Ezio could begin to climb his way down both brother and guard had vanished behind the crowd of dockworkers that had obscured his view. 

Ezio had searched, but there was no trace of either, and then he’d had to run from his own pursuers.

He was alone, of course, the last remnant of a fading legacy. Father, brothers, sons… all dead or disappeared. Even his ally, Volpe, had proven untraceable as his efforts in Florence turned up nothing but old rumors and frightened thieves. Though, perhaps he should not have hit that one cripple so hard. But the things he had said, and with such vitriol…

Ezio startled, hidden blade sliding free though thankfully to no purpose when a warm hand found his. Leonardo was kneeling in front of him, looking up with a gaze full of open concern and Ezio imagined he could feel the beautiful, brilliant, honest blue of his soul even without his gift.

“It is late, Ezio. I have some cots my assistants use on occasion. I had the linens changed only yesterday.”

Leonardo’s truth was nearly the same bright shades of his mother and sister. As Federico and Petruccio had been. Of his father.

“My children are missing.” Ezio’s voice was a croak. He hadn't returned to Monteriggioni. He hadn't told Claudia. If their mother found out, the news of her grandchildren missing -dead?- would kill her as sure as any poisoned blade. His eyes burned with exhaustion. “I can’t find them.”

Leonardo’s arms were like a blanket around his shoulders, lifting him while the man murmured congratulations and condolences. The Assassin’s eyes dropped as he was led to something that was bigger than a cot. He was not crying as his boots were tugged free, the ties and belts of his armor eased off. He did not clutch at a pillow as his hair was stroked and a soft, gentle voice reassured him it would be better in the morning.

It would not be better.

A sharp _tsk_ reminded him of the Creed he’d taken for his own, and Ezio conceded that truth as his mind drifted off.

Nothing is true.

And everything is possible.

* * *

Leonardo slowly relaxed. It had been some time since he’d had a man in his bed, but as he watched his friend’s breathing even out into true slumber no amorous thoughts intruded. For such tragedy to strike the same family so many times… it was like a Greek play. He let his fingers stroke the silken strands of Ezio’s hair a final time, a luxury he wouldn’t dare allow himself if the Assassin was in his right mind, and stood to leave the bedroom.

He would take a cot for himself, even if they were a bit cramped for his liking, although…his mind turned the codex page. The hidden words hadn’t been like anything he’d had to translate and decrypt before. Once he’d worked out Ezio’s hand, which was clearly unfamiliar with the Arabic script that made up the majority of the text, he’d realized that it had been poetry.

The passage wasn’t one meant to seduce or flatter; it had simply been a heartfelt benediction of admiration. Not for appearance, but for skill. For the woman’s inner strength. 

It was inspiring, and any good smith knew to strike while the iron was hot.

Leonardo made his way back to the communal workroom, tossed more logs on the fire, and took up his brush. He’d have to start over, the composition as it was didn’t fit the new vision, and hope the Marquess didn’t mind keeping the finished work in his _private_ collection. Already he could see it coming together… Isabella kneeling, naked and humble among the fires of passion. Her golden hair drifting on the heat of flames, and in her hands, offered like precious jewels, her own eyes, disparate but as inflamed as the conflagration around them. Eyes that drew one in like a moth, heedless…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo is a good bro, even when thirsty.
> 
> This chapter was gonna be all Leonardo and then the muse decided to take an abrupt left at the overpass. Poor Ezio needs some emotional support, and now that he feels safe enough for it he's just gonna have a little breakdown.


	29. Chapter Twenty Three

Desmond is a little over six months old and starting on disgustingly solid foods -though to call them solid is a generous stretch. Mashed up noodles, soupy rice, and boiled down to nothing vegetables are fine, but the level of avian symbolism involved in his big brother’s efforts to accommodate the singular tooth causes his twenty first century sensibilities to break out all over his face- when the thought that has been brewing in the back of his mind crystallized into something solid and mildly terrifying.

Federico is like Desmond.

Federico isn’t normal. This in itself isn’t new. Normal kids -well, normal civilian kids- don’t use rooftops for travel or conceal knives as long as their forearm on their person. Federico is quiet, is stealthy to a degree that is more habit than intention. And while being a polyglot isn’t so unusual for the period, actually being able to write in the same language one speaks is. Those that can would be either a.) high ranking members of the church, or b.) educated members of nobility and how often those two groups intermingle shouldn’t be surprising.

But Federico has had no shame in telling stories of their mother, and while a noble born woman fallen on hard times like the Signora -like ~~his sister~~ Claudia- might run a brothel she certainly wouldn’t have worked in one.

But it’s the sight of his brother observing the courtyard of giggling, grappling courtesans and absently rubbing his thumb against his ring finger that cinches it. Federico is like Desmond. That, then, means his brother is not his brother. Except he is. He claims it with every kiss and headpat and murmur of _Fratellino._

Desmond’s head hurts when he tries to think of _why._

Why didn’t he leave him at the orphanage? Why does he work so hard? Why Desmond? Why his brother? Why now?

Why can’t he imagine Bill putting in even half the effort to keep their family together?

So if Federico is like Desmond, then the question that follows the why is the who. Neither of them have their shared scar -yet- but they do have eagle vision. Ezio is right out as his brother’s grumbles make it damn clear the future mentor is still running around, ah, _Ezio-ing_. Frankly, the disgusted, surly tones of the rants makes Desmond almost certain his older brother is also his great-great-somethings-great-grandfather in addition to being his cousin. There is a slim chance that Federico is some other Masyaf assassin, maybe Malik, but with Desmond’s luck it doesn’t seem likely.

Unfortunately, being an infant meant all he can really do is think, and thinking eventually made him wonder _how._ Reincarnation was a thing in plenty of belief systems, but not _his._

Altaïr was the one with the most exposure to the Apples of Eden; commanded one for decades before eventually determining it too dangerous, hiding it away. He died in the same room with one, memory disk on lap. Desmond can’t say that it would be impossible for the Apple to somehow create a copy or simulation of Altaïr in those final moments, save it, and then ctrl+V that version onto some unborn embryo.

Honestly the thought scares him. Just a little. Makes him wonder if he had done that himself; if his instinct to survive even as the Eye killed him took his personality and memories and imprinted them on the body he was in now.

The situation just screamed Precursor meddling, and more than anything that pissed him off. He doubted it would be Minerva or Juno; their endgame required everyone dying before they could see the bigger picture, but even Minerva had been fallible. Jupiter, maybe? In what little Desmond had seen through Ezio’s eyes he seemed affable, or that might have just been two flirts shamelessly feeding off one another.

Then again, the Capitoline Triad weren’t the only Isu around.

The only hiccup with this theory was that Desmond existed. He was in the _past-present_ and alive and that… that wasn’t something an Isu could do. Taking something from the past and placing it _just right_ to effect the future was perfectly in line with the Calculations. Finding something in the future and pulling it backward? If the Isu had been capable of doing that, they wouldn’t have gone extinct. They would have grabbed the finished Eye and used it before it was even conceived.

Or would that invite paradox? If the Eye was used then there would be no need for an Eye and thus they didn’t have it when needed so they had to make one in the future and…

Desmond shook his head, grinding it against the layers of soft fabric his brother had laid down while he went to work with the girls.

The whole situation was confusing when it wasn’t embarrassing -not that he wouldn’t choose living if it was on the table- and at the end of the day he was still a baby. He couldn’t be expected to do jack shit when he sometimes still fell flat on his face and that was, oddly enough, reassuring. To not have the fate of the world on his shoulders? To know he had family that had his back? Wonderful.

“It’s okay, Sef. Everyone falls. The important thing is to pick ourselves back up. I’m right here.” A phantom of Maria Thorpe called encouragingly, crouching at the edge of the nest in chain mail and robes. Desmond pushed himself off his stomach with a grunt. It was probably unhealthy to lean into the ghosts...

But it was good to have goals.

He crawled forward, one little shuffle at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was actually the first Desmond POV I wrote, so the tone may be a little off.


	30. Chapter Twenty Four 1/2

Altaïr’s knife slid into the pale belly of his target like a fish slid through water. Appropriate, considering. With economical, route movements he ran his blade up the center of the corpse. Flesh split, and like an overfull sack of grain guts spilled onto the table shared with sailors and fishermen. Wiping the pile of stomach, intestine, and reproductive organs into a bucket to be tomorrow’s chum, Altaïr reached for the next fish. A quick glance with his sight confirmed the lack of roe present, and he plunged his knife home.

A fly, fat and happy, buzzed past his ear to land on the blood soaked table. It rubbed its front legs in glee. 

Altaïr watched it with suspicion even as he kept an ear on the conversations around him. Of course the smell of blood and viscera was a ringing bell to the flies, and no small amount of cats lingered beneath tables, eyes gleaming gold in the shadows. Altaïr kicked at a scrawny beast before it could become too interested in the bundle resting beside the Assassin’s feet. Angelo gave a disappointed coo as his hand flapped in empty air.

“It had mange, _Fratellino.”_ Likely fleas, too, and his brother would definitely not enjoy petting those. The crawling pests were the reason fish were prepared adjacent to the docks and not in the market itself. Though the market would have offered more opportunities in general, the gossip of fishermen (and the occasional fisherwife) was worth his time even if the reduced pay often wasn’t.

Altaïr wouldn’t risk taking Angelo on the boat. He touched his brother’s skinny rump with a toe, assuring himself Angelo was still there and not crawling off to accidentally drown himself or get mauled by ferals, and resumed his not-gossiping.

“It was the strangest thing!” A man who’d gained his experience with his knife by discovering first hand what not to do was saying, “Went out back for a piss and there was this woman, dress all rucked up around her thighs, running along the edge of the roof. Nearly stopped my heart, it did, indecent was whats what.”

Another man laughed, blade flicking watery blood this way and that as he shook his hand dismissively. “What, like _il Assassino?_ You drank too much is all. When was the last time you had a good fuck?”

“Heh.” A third man leered, digging a thick finger between the flesh of a gutted fish. “If the Assassin was pretty enough, I’d wouldn’t mind them killing me... _lentamente..._ ” 

The man dodged a handful of wet innards. The cats pounced, a moment of posturing and unsheathed claws before the victor vanished into the shadows with his prize. Conversation lulled as the men fell into companionable quiet, broken only by the soft lapping of water and lazy buzz of gorged flies. 

There was a surprising lack of humidity so close to the docks. It was a pleasant way for his blade to spend the morning. 

One man’s wife was pregnant, again, and another was trying and failing to romance a baker’s daughter. There were rumors that the White Devil had returned and was terrorizing nuns, looking for _something._ Redemption? Ha! The Doge hadn’t made any public appearances, not even to make a speech on feast days, and though the city guard had been recruiting it wasn’t always volunteers. Some wondered if the Barbarigo Doge had been poisoned like his predecessor and the Council was concealing his death to save face.

All wanted to know what La Serenissima had done to merit _il Assassino’s_ attention. It was a coded question concealing a thought far less christian: Who would he kill next? 

“I don’t pay you to stand around like a bunch of hens.” Captain Rais’s voice growled out, mouth puckered in eternal aggravation as he lifted a covered basket of fish to carry to a waiting cart. “The business of Assassins is none of ours.”

The sailors gave various grunts of agreement. The Assassin in their midst made no comment, simply grabbed the next fish by the slime slick tail and dragged it closer. His gaze was on his work, but his attention stayed firm on the fishing ship’s captain as the cart began to drive off and a red-wreathed figure emerged from the shadow of a warehouse.

The old man’s wrinkles multiplied as he growled, voice as clear as if he was speaking in Altaïr’s own ear, “ _Fanculo._ ”

“Father-”

“You are not my son. Fuck. Off.”

The other man, far younger though by far not young, blushed with constrained violence. Absently, Altaïr noticed the men around him slowing their own work as eyes and ears drifted to the confrontation. 

“ _Prego_ , Messere, I need the work. I, I am sorry I’m not-” The not-son made a fist, shaking, but with glance at the primed men wisely did not raise it. _“_ You have always hated me, blamed me, it was not my fault! I loved, love Trista.”

Rais let out a dismissive bark. “Tell me, do you even have anything of my daughter’s trousseau left or has it all been sold to fund your _grief?_ ”

The man was red like wine, dark and deep, an undirected anger that had been fermenting for days. Weeks. Maybe years. He spat at the dirt crusted planks between Captain Rais’ feet and turned, rushing down an alley like a rebuked dog. Altaïr watched as the unique color dimmed, vanishing into nothing with distance, and with a flourishing spin switched the grip on his blade from one to throwing to slicing.

As the sun approached it’s zenith and the number waiting fish petered to nothing the reborn Assassin picked his payment from his own workload, selecting three of the larger sea bass to wrap in a brine soaked cloth. He scowled, reminding himself not to bite the weathered hand that ruffled his hair. Angelo squirmed in his pack, turning himself around and pulling himself up by the leather strap of Altaïr’s spaulder. Bright brown eyes squinted at Captain Rais, before breaking into an uneven smile and thrusting one open, expecting palm at the man.

“Oh? Did you help too, _piccolino?”_

Altaïr did not roll his eyes as a single copper coin was bemusedly placed in the waiting hand. He gripped the strap of Angelo’s pack and jostled the whole thing, bumping his brother back down so he was safely sitting. An elbow jabbed his back, unhappy. Altaïr ignored it.

“Do you think Madonna Rossi would like fish for dinner, _Fratellino?”_ Hopefully she hadn’t fallen behind on her work again. 

Angelo’s voice was uncertain, catching on the vowels. “ _Ca-pa?_ “

“ _Capra._ She has a goat, yes.”

His little brother made a strange sound deep in his throat and then, either ignoring or forgetting everything his older and wiser brother had told him, pulled himself back up until he could peer over Altaïr’s shoulder like a second head. With one tiny hand grasping Maria’s perch, and the other twisting it’s finger’s into Altaïr’s hair, the reborn Assassin sighed at the stubbornness of children.

The brothers headed off.

* * *

Ezio found himself unable to tear his gaze from the sketch in his hands. For a simple drawing it was as lovingly crafted as everything Leonardo made, though truthfully only one among many littering the page. The head and shoulders of a young boy -terribly young, with the rounded cheeks of the well loved practically dwarfed by the intricately drawn predator- stared up at him. His nephew. Did he look like his father? Like his father’s father? It was hard to tell, children were so… soft, malleable, _vulnerable_ … but he imagined he could see a sort of sharp coldness in that dark gaze. As though the hawk on the boy’s arm were borrowing those eyes until it could be freed.

Such a gentle, kind soul his Federico had. 

A warm pressure at his waist directed Ezio away from a lamp post, and the Assassin resisted the urge to touch his fingers to his nephew’s cheek. The ink had long since dried, but he didn’t want to take the risk. The most miraculous of blessings he had even _this_ much of his wayward family. He should have spoken to Leonardo sooner. The man didn’t have a duplicitous bone in his body. 

“I am sorry I did not realize it at the time, Ezio. I was, well, to be honest I was more interested in the bird. She was the only reason I packed the sheet, my best reference for the wing pattering, you see…” Leonardo filled the air as they walked, musings and anecdotes creating a bubble of pleasant noise as they passed through midday crowds. Habit and instinct nearly led the Assassin to taking a stack of waiting crates for a staircase as they crossed a short bridge, but a soft tug on his sleeve brought him back. “...and Sister Teodora’s convent may not be conventional, but she does maintain several ties to the more charitable establishments. A babe cannot survive without a nurse, and there are not so many women with milk as to make the profession worthless.” 

Leonardo’s words echoed distantly in Ezio’s mind. He glanced up from the sketch with a frown, “A Sister? I’ve already been to the orphanages, Leonardo.” The frown deepened, gaze darkening as he pressed the sketch to his chest in lieu of a living child. “They had my son. They put him in a cupboard like, like _la cosa da dimenticare!_ And then they lost him.”

Lost was not dead. He had to remember that. He liked to think he was at least good enough to see when someone was outright lying to him, and the old woman had as much shame as anger pulsing through her when she came upon him questioning the young sister. The strength that let her face down an Assassin without fear - it had reminded him of his own mother, before the hangings. His son lived. He nephew lived. Hopefully, they were together. Auditore did not do well alone.

Ezio steadied his own hands by focusing on folding the sketch so that the creasing wouldn’t cross his nephew’s image. 

Artist’s hands, strong yet soft, rubbed his shoulder. “I grieve with you, my friend, but if anyone has heard of your missing children I believe it would be Sister Teodora. Signora Paola recommended her services-”

“ _Paola-?_ ” Ezio stared at Leonardo from beneath his father’s hood. The man’s eyes sparkled, mouth quirking with mischief, completely unaware that Ezio’s shock came not from the idea of a nun running a brothel -though it did beg a question or two- but that it was Paola who would introduce them. The thought sent a quiver down his spine.

What else had the woman done? What did she know? It was true she had helped him. And yet… why? She did not gleam with a purity of purpose that sang of friendship for friendship’s sake. She wanted something from him, as much as Lorenzo did, but _il Magnifico_ had made that clear from the beginning. Their relationship was an honest exchange, as much as the taking of human lives could be honest.

“I _did_ say she was unconventional.” 

Ezio swallowed his ill feelings and let himself smile. It was easier with Leonardo. “I simply did not think you were the type. We should go together, sometime, and make a night of it!”

“Ah.” Leonardo’s eyes went wide, the flow of word’s stuttering as his face colored in embarrassment. Was he shy? Leonardo was always dressed so formally, down to his hat. So unlike his brother who had flashed his chest at every man and woman to so much as glance in his direction. “It is a courtesan’s time that one pays for, not necessarily the act. I’m afraid the usual pursuits hold no interest for me, _amico mio_ , my work has always come first.”

Ezio hummed, nodding. Not so unlike his brother, after all. “You have a Muse, then.”

“Something like that.” Leonardo glanced at him, then away, adorable and somehow so much younger as he fiddled with the tie of his sleeve. It was like teasing Petruccio, and for once the memory of his little brother did not hurt. It was the ache of a muscle, warm and well used, instead of a stab through his chest.

He stepped closer to his friend as they approached their destination. La Rosa della Virtù was unassuming, though not nearly as much as Mughetto. The only hint of its purpose was the flowers blooming in window boxes and a balcony dressed in the palest of pink silk guarding the door. No sounds could be heard from within, either by design or simply because of the time, though Leonardo stepped up to knock without an ounce of hesitation or shame.

He’d been to the brothel many a time, clearly.

The Assassin grinned into his shoulder under the pretense of watching the street.

The grin melted into a blank canvas of flesh as the door opened. Beyond the young woman at the door stood a lady in a habit that was as immodest as it was distracting and next to her was a very familiar thief. Despite his lack of dress and welcoming surroundings the man did not look the least pleased. It was the same look Antonio had when he and Ezio argued on what to do about Marco Barbargio.

Ezio gently pushed the courtesan out of the way and shuttered his heart, silently offering an apology to his friend. He smiled, and it was a blessing his father’s hood hid his eyes.

“Ezio?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought I would have a convo between Teodora and Ezio here, but, well, Leonardo was forced to suffer oblivious Ezio once more.
> 
> Altaïr just keeps running into the worst people, doesn't he? *sharpens knife*
> 
> Also, the way I'm thinking of Eagle Vision color coding... the brighter a shade something is, the more "pure", the more someone wants to help you for the sake of helping. No ulterior motives, and they are willing to do what *you* believe you need. This is Leonardo and Ezio's family to a T with some slight shades of variation. Mario is the darkest of his family but still quite bright. The darker blues are what happens when other motives muddle the desire, or a person wants to help you but they do it in a way that *they* think is best, regardless of what you actually want. Like, say, you ask for a Playstation for Christmas but they get you an X-box because they believe X-box is superior. Or your parents make you join the basketball team when you really want to do Art Club, or something.
> 
> Also it is my birthday tomorrow so I am going to drink wine and eat cookies all day and *attempt* to get By-The-Book in Black Flag. Considering I'll be drunk, who knows how that will go, but at least it will be authentic Kenway!


	31. Chapter Twenty Four 2/2

Sister Teodora was an uncommon beauty made moreso by the demure bearing she affected. It contrasted with the cut and rich fabrics of her dress culminating into an all too enticing woman that would have drawn the eye, among other things, of a younger man. A month ago, perhaps, the Assassin would have looked upon her teasing smile and welcoming bosom and let himself indulge. For a moment. For a night of warm respite before taking up his blade and his search once again.

He’d like to think that younger, impulsive Ezio had learned some caution since. But there were many things he would like -his boys in his arms foremost- but life was not so kind as to bend to his desires.

Ezio stared down at the evening crowd from his spot on the balcony. Men and women passed by on the street below, oblivious to the danger around them. Guardsmen moved about on patrols, whistling their appreciation to the courtesans of La Rosa della Virtù as they waved from the open door. It would be a simple matter to dispatch them, there were only four, and he could remove the threat presented by the one in the plate armor easily enough. Dropping from the balcony would give him enough force to punch through it, if he landed right, and then he could use the man’s polearm to sweep the feet from the other three. After that it would only be a matter of how quickly he could raise and lower his weapon.

Did it hurt the Templars when he slaughtered their men? Did the bastards even know who they were dying for? Did they care? Unlike Emilio, Marco did not drive the simple, honest merchants and craftsmen out of business with ever-changing restrictions. Though that simply may have been because he did not care to involve himself with the common people he was meant to protect and rule. 

Antonio’s thieves had moved into the dead man’s palazzo easily enough -the Assassin felt little surprise as his own family home had suffered similar fate- giving his guild a veneer of respectability that even Volpe’s lacked. What the man had to be upset about, Ezio couldn't fathom.

Were the Sister’s congregation not…  _ clean? _

It was into these musing a shadow grew, and Ezio glanced away from the ignorant and innocent to the surprised face of the most virtuous courtesans. The surprise was quickly folded into a gentle smile, hands coming together in prayer, “I apologize for the wait, my son, did the girls not please you?”

How long since those words had been directed at him?  _ Mio figlio. _

Ezio shook regret from his mind. “Your girls are more than pleasing, Sister, I simply do not have quite the _ appetito _ for such hospitality this night.”

“It is rare to find a man that would admit to his own limits.” Teodora reached down to pluck a piece of candied ginger from a platter that a trio of giggling girls had left behind. The silver cross at her neck fell free, twisting and catching the fading sunlight like a wave on the ocean. “An admirable quality, certainly. But you did not come here for hospitality, did you?”

Ezio hummed his agreement, turning and bracing himself against the balcony railing. Her gaze was nearly as hooded as his own as it raked his form, lingering on an exposed bit of chest. A faint thrill snaked through his chest as her cheeks warmed, hands settling on her voluminous skirts. 

“My son,” she seemingly reminded herself, head tilting. “I have heard some interesting rumors, of late. That you seek to devour the souls of children to fuel your own dark powers?” Ezio did not blink. He did not even breathe. For a long moment he could only stare as she continued, “Or is that you use their blood in your foul elixirs?”

_ “Che cazzo!?” _

“It is how you killed the Doge, is it not? They say he choked on his own breath, using the last of his strength to identify his killer…”

“I did not kill Doge Mocenigo, and would never hurt a child! It’s against-” Ezio’s hands were fists, biting off his words at the last moment. Somewhere within the brothel a woman’s voice rose, high and sweet, along with the expert plucking of harp strings. 

“Against…?” Sister Teodora softly pried, as though they were in a confessional and not a bordello. Ezio snorted as he forced himself to think. He was not that impulsive young man. He could not be. If his father did not see fit to tell his own son of their family legacy, he certainly would not reveal it to a woman who was more stranger than friend. 

Ezio waved the question away.  _ “Niente. _ I was trying to save Giovanni, I failed. The rumors you’ve heard are lies to conceal the true culprits’ motives.”

“You are an  _ Assassino _ , are you not? A killer most skilled. A demon in white. What business does a killer have saving lives?”

“What business does a nun have running a bordello?”

It was her turn to blink, lips parting in surprise, before her gaze warmed with something that was not lust. “You are certainly not what I expected, my son.”

And what was that supposed to mean? Ezio shook his head, turning to take hold of a support beam for the balcony awning. “Enough. If you’ve only hearsay and lies, I shall take my leave.” 

“Wait, Ser Ezio, I only meant-”

He did not hear what came next, he did not want to hear. Ezio caught a window outcropping and used the technique he’d learned from Rosa to launch himself upward. It had been a foolish hope, though well meant, that the supposed Sister would know anything of his children. As though he would  _ ever _ hurt them. Is that what the Sisters of the  _ Ospedale _ were saying? That he had come to eat their charges?

Is that what  _ Sister _ Teodora thought? That he was a killer, a brute to be distracted by a pretty face and a good fuck?

He couldn't help but think that she was not wrong.

* * *

_ “Dormi Dormi Bel Bambin…” _

Angelo smelled like soap. Soap, and that underlying scent that suffused infants of every kind. It wasn’t something that had a name: it was too instinctual to be named, and was so faint it was hard to recognize except by where it was not. For now, as Altaïr carried his sleepy, clean, grumpy brother in his arms the smell clung like a barnacle on a boat. The baby shifted in Altaïr’s hold, arm wrapping around his brother’s neck as he stubbornly refused to give in to the inevitable.

_ “Fa la nanna. O fantolino…” _

But it had been a long day for the both of them, and Altaïr didn’t try to fight back the yawn that escaped his mouth. He could feel his brother’s jaw stretch in helpless mimicry against his shoulder. A peek from the corner of his eyes let him know Angelo was patting his own face with infantile indignation. Altaïr continued singing, barely louder than a whisper, as he rubbed his little brother’s back.

_ “Fa la nanna. O caro figlio…” _

It was still a good distance to the broken attic they called home, and at least one of them should get a good amount of sleep. Altaïr brushed his lips against Angelo’s still damp hair. His brother made a sound not unlike a startled kitten and turned away, staring out into the dark streets and the few people that hadn’t not made it to their own homes. 

_ “Fa la la la, la la la la…” _

As they passed a familiar tavern the door opened. A man stumbled out on a wave of heat and light, rubbing his mouth and gesturing rudely to the company he was leaving behind. Across the way two flowers were walking with a small group of guardsman, flattering the men until their sense of self importance outweighed their sense of finance and the lot disappeared around a corner.

Altaïr kept his pace steady, though he did have to shift his grip on his brother so his forearm didn’t lose all feeling where a tiny butt pressed on it. Tomorrow they had plans for an early morning, though after the bounty was exchanged he hadn’t any plans. Run messages? His Sight would make finding clients more than simple.

But it was one of the few things other, less  _ advantaged _ children could do to earn their own bread.

Perhaps it would be better to stay in for a few days. With a room that did not require purchase and food that could be stored they were not so desperate for funds. And he had been having… thoughts...

_ “Fa la la la, O caro figlio…” _

_ “Fahtello.” _ Angelo’s entire body locked up in Altaïr’s grip, back muscles so tense they could be felt even beneath the thin layer of fat he had finally put on. Altaïr let the world brighten, the light of the stars nothing compared to what his own Sight offered. He let his awareness expand, not missing a step, looking past the cerulean fire that was his little brother to what could have possibly frightened him so. 

There.

Red. Dark and deep. Swaying as it stalked; an adder in the grass.

_ “Fa la nanna. Fa la la la la.”  _

They came to a cross street that would lead to a bridge, and from there, the way home. Altaïr ignored the bridge and cut through a break between buildings, not big enough for a garden but too small for anything useful. He broke into a light run, eyes closing to slits as his attention split.

He slammed to a halt at a gathering of flowers, Angelo letting out a cry of alarm despite the stabilizing grasp the Assassin kept on his head. A startled brunette looked down at him and lowered her hands from where they had risen on their journey to the pointed stick in her hair.  _ “Passerotto? _ What are you doing- ah!”

She accepted his brother with motherly instinct despite her confusion, her sisters hissing questions as Angelo managed a very clear _ no _ and reached for him. But Altaïr was already moving, slipping back between buildings with an ease that the skill of an adult and the stature of a child could achieve. Angelo’s bag, currently full of bathing supplies rather than baby, slipped from his shoulder and into the cradle of his arms.

_ “Fa la la la la.”  _

The red shape sharpened, wandering attention refocusing, and as Altaïr stepped onto the bridge home it called, panting,  _ “Piccolo! Pezzo di merda!”  _

His heart stuttered. His cheeks flushed and his eyes stung. The Assassin turned, head bowed but gaze unbroken.  _ “Sì?” _

“You.” The man was no longer the hungover wreck he’d been a few mornings ago. He was drunk, but his gait hardly wavered. A thick finger pointed at the trembling boy. Altaïr took a measured step back. Wood creaked as the larger man’s weight settled on the old wood. “You’re the reason  _ il vecchio _ won’t hire me back. What are you, his  _ bastardo?” _

Altaïr continued his retreat, hand delving into the bag. 

“Well?! Why don’t you say something?! Do you think you’re better than me?!”

“No.” Altaïr stopped, swallowed, raised his chin. He curled his fingers around a length of wool, heavy from drying a tiny body and strong as a good rope. “I know I am better than you.”

What came out of the man’s mouth wasn’t a word so much as it was an explosion of sound. He charged as if to grab, and Altaïr slipped from his sights like a greased eel. Altaïr rotated, bringing a leg up close to his body before driving it at the man’s knee. The joint wrenched and the snake let out a bestial yell, limping as he tried to capture his ever moving target.

It was a dance, with only a sliver of the moon to act as witness. Altaïr could have run. It was what he told the flowers to do. To get away and find help. To find Altaïr. 

“I bet your mother’s a  _ puttana. _ After I kill you, I’ll fuck a new brat into her, how’s that sound? She’ll thank me, I’m sure.” The snake snarled as the burning pit of anger within had finally found an outlet. He loomed, lip twitching between a smile and grimace, hands balling into anticipatory fists as he kicked the discarded satchel away. 

Altaïr moved. 

The reborn Assassin ducked, running between the man’s legs and straight at the side of the bridge. His heart thundered in his ears, the cloth in his hands uncoiled, and Altaïr sprang up and off the railing as the man turned to catch him. With a flick of the wrist the damp wool wrapped around a bare throat. The sudden weight of a child slamming into his back set the enraged man stumbling, and Altaïr took full advantage of his poor footing. 

Altaïr dropped himself over the side of the bridge, wool still in hand, dragging his opponent with his own dead weight. The man didn’t expect the move, didn’t think of doing anything but clawing at his own neck as Altaïr braced his feet against the underside of the bridge and  _ pulled.  _ The reborn Assassin couldn’t hear the wet sounds of a man dying over the gentle lapping of water and his own pounding heart. The canal waters were close enough he could feel droplets on his own neck.

His fingers went numb as cloth cut into the flesh.

Eventually, the man stopped struggling, and in his already precarious position his body began to tip. Altaïr very nearly followed as the fresh corpse fell into the water with a loud splash. Soaked and shaking, Altaïr climbed back up onto the bridge. 

Right into the perfumed arms of worried flowers. He should have been too big for it, but he couldn’t find the strength to fight them as he was picked up and settled on a generous hip. His eyes drifted shut to the sound of his little brother’s soft, worried voice.

_ “Fa la la nanna. Fa la la la.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that talk between Teodora and Ezio did not go how I planned it. Like, at first I thought I was going to describe it in flashbacks and it was not going to be nearly as confrontational. Teodora was going to be sympathetic, but also pragmatic and point out how low the chances were for two small children to survive on their own. Her girls would keep their ears open, and they would keep them in their prayers, but really... and then I started writing it, it just warped. And I've been staring at it for two days and not matter how I poke the muse it refuses to change it. In this version, which I suppose is now cannon, Teodora intended to tease Ezio and draw his attention to how his actions look from an outside perspective. About his reputation. The importance of subtly and how that would serve him better in his search for his vanished babies. 
> 
> She miscalculated and failed, miserably.
> 
> And I've been wanting to write Altair dangling over something or other and strangling a man to death for a few months. Lesson: Do not disparage Mamma where the Murderbaby can hear you. It makes him *upset* and *mean*. 
> 
> Also, off screen drama:  
> Antonio: The courtesans are being uppity and not paying protection, you are a courtesan, fix this.  
> Teodora: I run *a* brothel, not the entire industry. What do you expect me to do? Threaten them? I will NOT.  
> Antonio: Talk to them! The guards are next to useless, with Ezio around you would think they would realize that...  
> Leonardo: Hmm. They look busy. I will return to my shoppe *Leonardo Vanish!*  
> Ezio: *observes angry whispers* ...does Antonio have an STD? Rosa certainly won't like that...


	32. Chapter Twenty Five

Rain fell in a steady pace through the hole in the roof. It struck the wool sheet spread beneath the gap like beads thrown against a drum, a patter of sleep inducing beats, and rolled down the slightly inclined length of fabric into a tub set up to catch it all. Desmond yawned, raising the crookedly carved _thing_ that was meant to be a toy to his mouth. The wood was smooth, and the paint non-existent, but it had a bulbous end and a not so bulbous end.

A spinning top? Did they have those in the 1500’s? Could be a person, if a murderous child had snapped off the legs and tried to sharpen the remains.

Desmond shoved the round bit in his mouth and lightly bit, the pressure of the action a relief to his itchy gums. He scooted on his butt, body low, inching his way to the edge of his playpen/pillow fort/bedding nest. Peeking over the top of a pillow he propped his chin on the silk and huffed. The Most Murderous Child was sitting at the table -not a proper table, just a few planks of wood balanced on bricks- with his back to Desmond, plotting.

And it was _plotting_. Normal six -seven? How old was his brother?- year olds could barely scrape together a plan, but Federcio took in a situation and carried out successful _executions_ in _seconds._

More evidence that his brother was someone else, and that someone else every instinct and hallucination insisted was Altaïr.

He should say something. He was getting better at talking. He should tell Altaïr he was different, too, that he was also an Assassin and then… what? Tell him about the Templars, now and in future? Juno? Desmond spat out the teething toy and wiped his face wholesale on the pillow. He rolled to the side, resting on his back and staring upside down at his brother. If he revealed what he was, just came out and said it, would Altaïr stop being Federico? Would he be treated differently?

Would they stop being family?

“ _Fratellino!_ ” Federico called, as if sensing his thoughts. “Come!” 

Desmond wrinkled his nose. He was not _un cane_. Rolling once more, and performing a small push up before gathering his legs beneath him, Desmond wobbled his way over to the table. _“Fratello?”_

“Sit.” Federico pointed to a pillow opposite his own. Desmond complied, pouting. More often than not his designated seat was Federico’s lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of spots but it was warm and an inevitable source of hugs. If Federico knew he was really an adult, would the hugs stop? He couldn’t remember Altaïr being so openly affectionate with his children. The guy was brilliant, but so stiff _,_ as though he thought every smile hid a blade and every conversation a trap.

Federico was fairly wooden too, like he was only pretending to be a real boy, but not with Desmond. Not with _Angelo,_ his _fratellino._

Federico tapped a clay cup on the table, drawing Desmond’s attention from the ghosts of big brothers past. Darim and Federico -Ezio’s Federico, not his- continued to wrestle for supremacy in the corner, flickering in and out of reality. Desmond rubbed his eye with one tiny fist and focused on the living Assassin.

 _“Fratellino,”_ Federico called, gentle, spreading his arms and revealing a small pile of tasty treasures. “Let’s play a game.”

Federico was terrible at games. Desmond wasn’t all that great either -the less said about his efforts in Fanorona the better- but when he’d piled a bunch of crap in the corner to make a castle all Federico had done was critique the patrol routes of his rock-guards. Desmond eyed the pile of cherries, mouth watering. “...what kind of game?” 

“A good one.” His brother picked a cherry from the pile and hid it beneath a cup. He did the same to a pair of old apricot pits, each getting their own house. Once all three were in a neat little row the former Mentor began shuffling the cups, slow at first but with quickly gathering speed. “If you find the cherry, you can have it.”

Desmond forced his wide eyes to stay on the moving cups. Three card monte. His brother was attempting to teach him gambling tricks! That either made him the _best_ big brother or the absolute _worst._

The cups came to a stand still, identical and motionless, and very nearly threatening. Shit. When did babies develop object permanence? Was this a test? Did Federico suspect something? Desmond sucked on his lower lip and jabbed a finger at the far left cup. His brother quietly raised it.

An apricot pit sat, sad and disappointing.

“It is alright, _Fratellino_. I know you can do it. You just need to look, _molto vicino.”_

After picking up the center cup and revealing the cherry beneath, the cups began moving again. Right. Well. If his brother wanted him to cheat… Desmond focused on the sliding cups, on the cargo they carried, and imagined the sweet, sweet taste of the fruit that would be his.

When his brother stopped the cups, Desmond pointed with confidence at the one that glowed the brightest.

Federico beamed, and Desmond gasped as no less than three whole cherries rolled free from their prison. “When-?!”

“Shall we play again?”

Desmond nodded, dragging his prizes to his side of the table and watching with gleaming eyes at the production his brother put forth in hiding a singular cherry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there. 
> 
> Shout out to tap_rat for predicting this silliness.


	33. Chapter Twenty Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for period typical homophobia and *very* dubious consent. Just some outside POV's and a bit of light world building before the time skip.

Unlike most thieves, Ugo did not make it a habit to use the roofs as his thoroughfare. That’s not to say he couldn't climb. Ugo grew up in _Firenze_ , and before the Pazzi had their way taking to the rooftops was often the best way around the bustling city. He’d seen more than one youth, or drunk, or illicit lover use those very same roofs to flee jeers or angry shouts. It may have been a bit unwise, but it had never been a crime, until it was. 

He wondered if _Il Magnifico_ had managed to get that law reversed.

Venice was more of the same, only with the added threat of drowning if you didn’t break a bone or two when the guards shot a man in warning. Ugo couldn’t see how the benefit outweighed the risk to anyone but an Assassin, couldn’t see why Antonio favored his pretty little rose over men with more experience even if they lacked the raw talent. The woman had gotten herself shot while trying to catch Ezio’s attention, after all, had gotten even more of their men injured in the circus of their escape, but did that matter?

No.

And Antonio still couldn’t grasp that no matter how learned, how wealthy, how influential he became Rosa would never be with him! Would never be with _any_ man if she had the choice. Ugo was pretty sure he himself had never fallen in love, because as far as he could tell love made you as dim witted as a pile of rocks. 

Like the couple coming off the boat just now, arm in arm, with fat purses that made his fingers itch. Of course that wasn’t what he was doing today. Today he was supposed to watch for new arrivals, for anyone coming or going that looked suspicious. That might be involved in the human trade. _We steal secrets,_ Rufio had told him with a pinched look. _Things._ _Not children. But someone does. Find out who._

He’d been sent on a fool’s errand. He should have worn the motley.

Bored, Ugo got off his crate and began walking the area, hand holding wrist behind his back to prevent any accidents. There, a woman’s silver necklace with a twisting clasp. Here, a man too busy haggling to notice his money pouch slipping away. There, guards ordered to help unload crates from a ship instead of guarding those very same crates. Here, slipping between buildings a small thief with his bag already full-

Ugo wrinkled his nose, idly noting the flies that followed the child like fat, happy drunks. A boy that small belonged beside his mother’s apron strings. Suspicious? Yes. A thief of people? Probably not. 

Still more interesting than anything else he’d seen all morning.

Ugo turned on his heel, following but not quite following the young boy as he made his way to the customs stall. The bag he hauled over his shoulder had brown stains, old and crusty, and while Ugo kept himself far enough back to avoid the smell it was enough that the face of the man waiting for the city official turned to look, a perfumed handkerchief raised to his face. The man raised a foot as if to kick the boy, then paled behind his embroidered silk, abruptly facing front with eyes a bit too wide to be natural.

Ugo settled himself in the shade of an overgrown balcony and watched. The line moved. Docking fees, taxes, bribes, and fancy parchments changing hands as persons of both good and ill repute finished their business and moved deeper into the city or, in one case, toward a ship with packed bags in hand. Finally the little boy and his sack stepped up, the top of his head barely brushing the counter of the stall. He stood on his toes, swinging the sack onto the desk where it hit with the dull thump of soft apples.

The city official’s face was pure disgust, finger raised to summon one of his thugs before the child said something that Ugo could not hear. Lips pursed, the official put on a pair of leather gloves and slowly began to untie the string that held the sack closed.

Heads rolled out. Small, beaked. Some fresher than others. Too few, by the smell. Ugo felt his own gorge rise. What child carries around a sack full of pigeon heads? By the way the kid was arguing, now, one that wanted to be paid.

Instead of counting the damn things, which Ugo didn’t blame the man for, with remarkable stoicism the official tossed the heads that had escaped back into the sack and carried it to a scale. A sack of heads was exchanged for a pouch of coins. The official summoned one of his men to, presumably, burn the sack. Ugo wasn’t sure. He had a sudden need to check on the hidden pigeon coops and make sure a clever little boy hadn’t found them and proceeded to wring every feathered messenger’s neck to collect on a bounty that was more of a joke than a serious attempt at pest control. 

How else had he gotten so damned many of the things? 

Once he was safely out of the sight of good folk and civil servants alike, Ugo began to climb.

* * *

He doesn’t look like demon spawn. It’s the first thought Mateo has when he sees him, and it’s silly enough it stalls already hesitant footsteps and catches his breath. _Il Passerotto_ looks like a child fine of form and face if a bit too thin. Waifish. The boy looks up from the blade he’s sharpening and the look he gives the man is inscrutable.

There is no judgement, for good or ill. 

The Signora gestures to a chair and Mateo accepts, grateful, wondering if the reason the boy is so thin is because he hasn’t eaten enough souls. Will his be taken in payment? Could he risk it? Is a coward’s soul even worth anything? Mateo half rises, apology on his lips, but suddenly there is a tiny hand on his knee. When he looks down it is into the face of a cherub, rosy cheeked with warm eyes that push him back with the weight of their concern.

He sits. The little angel smiles. Mateo answers in kind, reflexively, and the moment is broken as the Signora pours a glass of watered down wine and presses it into his hands. She leaves the room, door closing with a click of finality behind her, and Mateo is alone with his fate.

“If you don’t want to be here, leave.” The demon says, head tilted just so, inhuman.

“If only life were so simple…” Mateo raises the cup to his lips and drinks the entirety of it in several long swallows. The wine was weak, but there’s enough now sitting in his belly to fortify what scraps of courage he has left. He’s not sure where to start, not even sure what he really wants except no one should be hurt. 

“The beginning is a good place. All stories have a beginning. _In principio..._ ” The little angel says the last words with false gravitas, voice deeper as he crawls under the bed. 

“Messere.” The demon flashes its nature, a warning, eyes the color of brimstone, of hell’s skies. Mateo shudders. He made his choice, he did, and he wouldn’t be here if not for Sergio. So. He talks. _Il_ _Passerotto_ listens. He listens as Mateo confesses his sins. Of a relationship that had been enjoyable. Exciting. Of forbidden trysts between a young man eager to experiment and a woman already married. Of two childhood friends who were no longer children but men, grown, who wondered what it would feel like… and learned it felt good, with time and care and trust.

The words feel like a betrayal, but they come regardless, of a letter between lovers that another found and kept and wields like a whip. She won’t let him go. She is wealthy and married and he wanted to stop, to start his own family, but if he did her word and the letter would see him hang. Worse than. For himself, he would let her, but Sergio did not deserve what would be done to him.

And yet, Mateo doesn’t want her to die. She has children. She was kind, once. He thought he might have loved her. Once. 

The thieves guild could find the missive, could settle the matter, but then he’d be in debt to them and Sergio who can find no satisfaction from a woman’s arms would be at their mercy. 

_“Accetto.”_ _Il Passerotto_ says.

The infant angel emerges, dust on his nose and a cheesecloth wrapped package dangling from his smiling mouth.

Mateo laughs and he doesn’t know why.

* * *

Henrietta hums as she walks. Her bucket is filled with crumbs: bits of bread too burned or too hard for the household to stomach that she pounded with her pestle while her daughter lured butter from cream. Every step is accompanied by a scattering of crumbs and a flutter of feathers.

Step. Flutter. Step. Flutter. 

She glances around. Her eyes are not as sharp as they used to be -still sharp enough to silence unruly _nipoti_ \- but she doesn’t see _Il_ _Passerotto_. She supposes it isn’t anything to worry about. He comes when he likes, as quick and changeable as a spring breeze, his own chick nestled nearby. 

He’s a clever thing making himself useful, always helping her with her water buckets in exchange for a treat. Lord Christ said the birds don’t worry about the next day’s meal, and that’s true enough, because she can worry about it for them. Henrietta nods to herself, still humming, before reaching the public yard and dumping the last of her crumbs out of her bucket.

“You shouldn’t do that.” Bessini’s girl says, thinking herself so wise for one so young, as she pulls heavy rope that brings the bucket back up. “It’ll attract rats.”

A pigeon alights on the ground, pecking at burnt crust, before bobbing away at an aggressive flutter of an apron. 

Henrietta scoffs and reminds her to mind her elders with a flick at the maid’s ear. Another woman hides her smile behind a delicate fist. There are only so many that can pull water from the well at once -Henrietta knows some avoid the wait by drawing from the canals, but that’s a gamble she’ll not take- and spend the time talking. Henrietta could have one of her brood do the heavy lifting, and some mornings her bones won’t let her do anything else, but then she’d miss the stories.

She so loves hearing all the little rumors, the incidents of who did what, who got caught and who didn’t. So she notices when the whispers, giggles, and tale-telling cease and with a frown turns expectantly to what she presumes is a nosy, annoying, too proud for his own good guardsman. 

It is a guardsman, but he’s far from proud. He’s dead. A circle clears around the _Assassino_ as women clutch each other and push younger girls and children behind them. The murderer stands, eyes as uncaring and hungry as a cat, and even Henrietta feels a shiver run down her spine she makes the cross and steps forward. She has lived a long life, a good one, if he kills her it is no loss. 

She sets her hands on her hips, bucket smacking her thigh, and addresses the man as she would her own children. Distantly, she realizes he’s younger than her own children. Her children’s children. “Don’t you even think of hiding that in the well. You’ll give people plague.”

The assassin blinks at her, her spine tingles again, and she straightens in belligerence. The boy -he’s a boy with the barest hints of stubble on his face and dark weights around his eyes- gives a jerky nod before crouching down and slinging the corpse over his shoulder. There is barely anyone left in the courtyard, most having fled, and Bessini’s daughter is too busy catching flies to be of any use. 

_“Mi dispiace, dove?”_

Henrietta rolls her eyes, and flaps her wrinkled hands. “I don’t know. But you cannot put corpses in wells. They are difficult to remove and poison the water.”

She wishes her eyes were better, because for a moment she thinks it’s alarm and guilt that flashes across the assassin's face. Ha.

 _“Ciao.”_ He offers his goodbye and then proceeds to crawl up the wall with the body, vanishing moments before a stampede of armored boots fill the courtyard.


	34. Chapter Twenty Seven 1/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond insists he is three years old and perfectly capable of looking after himself. Everyone else knows he's actually 2 and a bit and surprisingly capable of getting into trouble. Ezio has an identity crisis.

Ezio felt cold. It wasn’t the sort of chill that could be chased away by a warm bed and warmer embrace. He mimicked his namesake, perched on the very top of the tallest tower, wrapped in the comforting gray of his gift. There was little room for ambiguity, for deception, when one’s intent was as bare as Adam before Eve. Yet, he was so far above the people their souls blurred into a silt muddied canal in a sea of the same.

He wondered if it was how The Lord saw his Earth. 

Ezio squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a quick prayer of apology, raising his wineskin to his lips as he finished. The breeze that blew atop the tower was strong, truthfully to call it something so gentle as a breeze was to do it a disservice, and his hair had long since fought free from it’s ribbon. His father’s robes snapped around him like a faded flag - a broken family.

“But we’re home now, hmm, _La Serenissima?”_ Ezio took another drink, twisting the skin as he did so, draining the very last drop. It hit his belly and he had to take hold of the cross with a white knuckled grip as he swayed with the next gust. _“Ezio… da Venezia.”_

He tasted the sounds, mouth shaping the new name with careful precision. They still curdled on his tongue the same way the knowledge made his stomach twist and his heart heavy. He should not have asked his Uncle permission to take the Codex pages back to Leonardo. He should have simply made copies, no matter that the Arabic made his hands cramp from unfamiliar motions, and been done with it.

He should not have sought out the Auditore family crypt whilst in Monteriggioni; a crypt Mario had been quite clear he himself had never bothered to explore since its collapse and disrepair in his own childhood. But his Uncle asked, in an offhand wishful sort of way, that with so many repairs to the town underway could he not look into its restoration whilst he was there? At least inquire as to the feasibility of the thing and what the cost may be.

Ezio had seen many things in the family crypt. Ghosts of men long dead. Bones of enemies exposed like rotted trophies. Secrets long since buried and ones he’d take with him to his own grave. His sister had not asked why he ordered the entrance bricked up, merely marked the lack of expense in her ledger with raised brows. He would have broken if she did.

The Auditore were not Auditore.

_Raised in a small house by the Venetian lagoon…_ every hurtful whisper and rumor he’d heard in the wake of the Execution… every one… true. Had his father known? Had Federico? He can easily imagine what it had been like for his great grandfather, widowed with a young son, father and teacher murdered. Being hunted. His own boys are still missing, he can feel their presence in his bones but he has yet to hold them in his arms... 

Antonio had welcomed an Auditore among his men even as he besmirched the honor of his station, reduced though it was. He continued to dismiss Ezio’s concerns. Was he… envious? That a common sailor had become a lord when he had not?

_To the Auditore that reads this, remember you are not a nobleman. You are not one of the deceivers, you are one of the people._

Renato -was that even his true Christian name, or another lie- had scattered the pages of the Codex to protect them from the Templars, but by the man’s own admission his apprenticeship had been cut short. Ezio had to wonder if his great grandfather had been aware of the secondary teachings hidden within Altaïr’s Codex; if he had cared, blinded by his pain. The Auditore crypt had been filled with so much hate, but the Codex… he’s watched Leonardo work through the translations and decoding. Talked with him through the musings of the re-forger. With each new discovery Leonardo smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

Altaïr loved his family above all.

Leonardo is illegitimate, but the nobility in the artist’s blood is undeniable. There is no deception there.

Renato’s love for his murdered family drove him to despair and near madness.

Hair whips at his numb cheeks, and with a shiver Ezio begins his descent. The Creed brushes through his wine weak mind as familiar as a catechism. Nothing is True. Everything is Permitted. He is not an Auditore -a name that has been struck from the records for being traitors and even if the ruling was reversed the damage has been done- but he is an Assassin.

Assassins are permitted families. Mother. Uncle. Claudia. Even if history forgets them. Giovanni. Federico. Petruccio. Even if the world conspires to rip them apart. Federico’s boy. His son. 

* * *

Desmond slips off the bed, fingertips reaching the floor first forming a stable base. His feet go up -up and over!- in the air before he twists his torso to land silently on all fours. The bitten off yelp that follows the sudden whisper in his ear fills his mouth with copper.

 _“Shh! Quiet, like a cat.”_ A man that Desmond doesn’t know the name of and has somehow never seen before raises a ghostly finger to washed out lips, crouched as though he’s hiding behind something. His nose is slightly crooked like it’s been broken one too many times, and there are tattoos spread across his scandalously shirtless chest and shoulders. Desmond sucks on his sore tongue and rubs at his own too skinny, too bare arm. He misses his ink, and something like jealousy twists his face into a pout.

The man perks up, turning his back to Desmond as he peers around a corner that isn’t there. Two beautiful wolves face each other separated by a sword running down a scar speckled spine. Desmond’s hands grip the loose material of his shirt -it falls past his knees but he’ll slap himself before he calls it anything but a shirt- and squeeze with restrained desire. 

Who the fuck is this man?

Oblivious to the toddling Assassin’s confusion, the ghost settles back on his heels with a smirk. _“Alright, Jenny’s got her distracted. Let’s go!”_

The man slinks just like the cat that he told Desmond to be, and after a few steps vanishes entirely. Desmond pads along the same route with his much smaller stride but hesitates at the door. Amelia is napping on the bed, the straw doll he’d made to pass time clutched to her chest and drool pooling under her cheek. He’s supposed to be napping, too, but he’s three-ish going on twenty-eight and it isn’t often his big brother leaves him alone.

Technically, he’s not alone. 

The hairs on Desmond’s arms rise at a whiff of perfume. He goes still as a statue -stiff as a board- as a group of courtesans past and present sashay through the hallway and _each other_. 

“Angelo, _dolcezza_ , what are you doing up?” One of the women near the back of the pack asks, catching sight of him. The straps of her dress are dangling off her shoulders and when she crouches down the corset cinched tight at her waist is the only thing keeping her modest. Behind her the group splits, one living woman pausing at the bottom of the stairs while the memories continue on, voices lost.

He’s getting worse. 

“Um.” Desmond twists his shirt in his hands, realizes what he’s doing, and looks away. With steady, deliberate motions he rubs out the wrinkles. “I, uh, I gotta go.”

Immaculately groomed eyebrows bend with concern. She’s close enough he can smell the perfume, expensive, something like roses and cardamom but somehow not off-putting. “Go where? Your brother-”

Desmond huffs, rocking in place. “No, _go.”_

Lips like red berries form a circle of understanding and wave her waiting friend away. _“Capisco._ Let’s go to the wash room, I will help you.”

“No! I can go myself, it’s okay. I don’t want to trouble you, Sophia.” The heat in his face swarms up to his eyes. The words. In his mouth. _“Ne ho tre.”_

Her mouth presses into a thin line for a moment before she ruffles his hair and stands, brushing her skirts as she does so. “Not a man yet, _dolcezza._ Are you certain you don’t want some help? A little company? My client won’t mind a wait, frankly he’s the type to enjoy it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright.”

Desmond watches her go, but it isn’t until he hears the warm, loud greeting she makes to her patron that his shoulders relax and he starts back down the hall. It’s still early, barely even noon, but sex isn’t the only thing the women of the brothel sell. The Assassin reaches his destination without further interruption and after checking the lack of contents overturns a squat pot for use as a step stool. He climbs from the pot to a table to a shelf and from there wiggles his way out a narrow window. 

He lands on his back on a pile of grain sacks, rolling off and crouching down at the sound of Madonna Floria navigating the price hike of rice and flour with the merchant at her door. Taking great fist fulls of his shirt to keep it from the mud, Desmond keeps his body crouched and low as he makes for the open street and freedom. Quiet. Like a cat. His grin growing with every step.

First stop: the Rialto Bridge! 

* * *

The rattle of dice and ring of coin exchanging hands bring a sound of humanity to the rooftop, the participants having already forgotten his presence. Ezio watches Antonio’s men gamble to pass the daylight hours, Lorenzo’s missive burning in his pocket. Renato would have hated _il Magnifico_ on principle, he suspects. 

But his father trusted the man, found him worthy of his blade and loyalty and perhaps Lorenzo de’ Medici did twist the law of Firenze to favor his own family and friends but as he prospered so too did the city. He did not actively harm those beneath him, did not draw innocents into his conflict nor eradicate the entire line of the Pazzi though it was well within his capability to do so. The children lived. The wives and daughters. 

Petruccio did not.

" _Assassino!_ ” A thief joins them at a light run, sweat beading on his brow and old stains of it around his neckerchief. The other men glance up before dismissing the new arrival and going back to their gambling and gossip - nothing new, nothing Ezio can use to find his boys. 

“You are _Il Magnifico’s_ contact?” Ezio lifts off the wall he had been leaning against and turns his attention to the smear of blue, different from the group that only offer assistance with the promise of coin. He blinks away the second sight. The man looks no older than himself, and it takes a moment before a name makes its way forward from his memories. “Ugo?” 

_“Sì.”_ The man looks surprised he remembered, but gives a wry smile. “Not just a pretty face and a strong arm, eh?”

The thief, Ugo, turns and begins making his way along the Venetian roofs. Ezio follows like a hound on a lead as they cross the rope bridge, a pair of criminal acrobats. Ugo has a dagger and no sheath to hold it. Dangerous. Telling. 

A quick blink shows the man still burning that same bright blue, tough speckled, like a sparrow’s egg. “I am curious, _amico._ Signore Lorenzo’s letter did not tell me much. With the skills of the guild why would an Assassin’s expertise be needed?”

“Thieves thieve, Ser Ezio. Assassin’s kill. When the two start mixing things get, _complicate._ ” He made a face, pulling himself onto the next tier of the roof with a grunt. “Also, I am not so skilled as to bet my life against the _stronzo’s_ protectors.”

“Your comrades would not assist? I have never known _Il Magnifico_ to not compensate his allies most fairly.” 

“ _Il Magnifico_ is _Il Magnifico._ ” The thief explained. He leapt from one balcony to the next before he stopped, neck stretching as he listened for the heavier tread of armored feet on roof tile.

Ezio’s gaze followed the Ugo’s and, yes, he could certainly see the problem. Not just the usual guardsmen were patrolling, but a neat grid of archers kept vigil over lesser used entrances. Ezio skirted around a chimney and headed for a higher lookout; a scaffold that had yet to be taken down after repairs. He waited for the last archer to turn their back and climbed up to check for anything that might let him avoid a direct confrontation.

He didn’t doubt his own abilities, but the shouting that would accompany a sighting of the _Assassino_ would alert the traitor and allow him to flee. Ezio could and would chase him down, of course, but the risk… he let his sight go gray and soft, the guards marching along like bloody candles as he searched for a safer alternative. 

A private garden, a haystack, or sufficient handholds just out of eyeline…

Small golden footprints on the cobblestones below, a meandering beacon, fresher than anything he’d found yet. Ezio ran to the end of the scaffolding and leapt just as the closest archer began to turn, a shout rising from their lips. The Assassin fell into a scratchy cloud, dragging himself out to rush to the footprints that glowed just as a bright and clear and Lord. They were so small. 

Swallowing, Ezio ignored Ugo’s confused cries as he stalked away from his mission -the target would keep, Lorenzo would have his blood after Ezio found his- following the trail of his kin. 

Tiny little toes had pressed marks into a puddle of mud, and Ezio felt his heart stutter. Did his child not have shoes? Had they been stolen? Was he hurt? Why was he alone? There was only one set of prints, after all, and as he reached the end of the street they had clearly paced with agitation. The golden prints were very nearly blinding where they overlapped, and in the shine of them he could almost see a ghostly child worrying at his lip.

East. His son had settled on east, passing an artist’s shop and pausing only long enough to admire a rendition of the Annunciation on display. Privately, Ezio thought Leonardo’s interpretation was better, and presumably his missing child did as well, as the footprints continued on. The purity of importance grew, glimmering bright enough to make his eyes water, but he didn’t dare release the Assassin’s Gift. 

There! Ezio broke into a run, uncaring of the porter and the box of goods that crashed into the street, chasing the small golden form that dipped under a cart and around a corner. His boots skid as he took the turn and his heart pounded in his chest as though he’d swum all the canals of Venezia.

“And just where are you going, _tesoro mio?”_

Bright brown eyes -Ezio’s eyes- stared back at him behind long, perfect lashes. His son’s feet were bare and covered in filth that had begun to creep into the fabric of his gown. Hair fell in messy, adorable curls all around his sweaty, startled face. Ezio could not stop the strangled sound that escaped his throat as he approached the poor boy, hands reaching to pick up that little body and hold him close. To not let go.

He had _found_ him.

 _“Figlio mio,”_ Ezio began, pausing as his son’s shock began to twist, eyes growing wide at something behind him-

Pain.

Ezio felt something crash into him, taking him to his knees and then the dirt covered street itself. Black specks danced before his eyes, growing with each labored breath as a weight lifted off his aching back. He watched, stunned and helpless, as his son was picked up and carried off by a boy made of wiry muscle and angry strength.

Federico.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Auditore Family Crypt is a DLC you get through the Ubisoft club thingy. It is more than a little creepy, in my opinion.


	35. Chapter Twenty Seven 2/3

Altaïr eschewed the high road as he made it his way back to his brother. His business with the debtor had not taken as long as he might have expected, which meant once he delivered the errant funds to _la Regina_ and received his fee the rest of the day could be spent in leisure. He would retrieve Angelo, go to the market, and perhaps buy some honeyed cakes from a vendor. Expensive, but delicious, and now that they were comfortable enough to afford such a treat it was hard not to indulge.

And he could speak to the other children that lurked in the shadows of society. Not all were orphans like Altaïr. Some were simply poor: parents who either did not have the ability to attend to their children or set young boys and girls and girls disguised as boys to wander the venetian streets in hopes of earning some coin of their own, in whatever means they could.

 _“Ciao, Il Passerotto.”_ Valentino slid up beside him, her steps as light as a wary deer. “Guess what I heard.”

“ _Il Assassino_ has returned to _Venezia_.” Altaïr did not need to guess. He’d known the moment _il Idiota_ had stepped off the boat, the many hairs on the back of Altaïr’s neck raising with the near imperceptible feel of once again being hunted. 

Valentino’s dirt smeared face fell into a pout. “Well, did you know he has not come alone? _La Volpe_ is making the rounds with the thieves, that’s valuable information, isn’t it?”

“Really? The same man that can supposedly duplicate himself? That holds court in _Firenze_ , and not _Venezia?”_ Altaïr placed a hand on the bump at his waist, where the folds of his sash held the recently claimed purse. “Did you actually see him?”

“Well, no… but my papa says with the… _fiori..._ being unreasonable-”

Altaïr scowled. “Your _papa_ is unreasonable.” 

“At least I have a papa.” The insult spilled out of the little urchin, habit tossing it as unthinkingly as the wind did leaves. Her eyes went wide and her entire body jerked, nearly slipping in a puddle of cold vomit.

“If that’s all?” Altaïr watched her flee back to her compatriots empty handed and embarrassed. They whispered and ran down the street, vanishing into the crowd like proper little pickpockets on the run from guardsmen and not a child two years their junior. 

With a snort Altaïr continued his way to the garden, shortly passing beneath the swinging sign with its engraved flower and rising sun. Ipomea, domain of _la Regina_ , and the holder of his soon to be completed contract. He nodded at the flower stationed in the parlor, idly noted the tremble in her hands, and flexed his own fingers until the knuckles popped.

There was nothing unreasonable about the Madames’ decision.

He stepped into _la Regina’s_ office, closing the door behind him with a click loud enough to draw the woman’s attention away from her sniffling child.

“Federico.” Madame Lucia turned, hands smoothing her skirt even as her features held a certain tense wariness that did not suit her youthful beauty. Altaïr tossed her the money pouch, fulfilling his bargain. She caught it with alacrity, eyes widening the slightest bit as she loosened the ties. “We did not expect you back so soon.”

Altaïr shrugged, and little Amelia looked away from the women trying to soothe her just long enough to burst into a fresh flood of tears. “Did the _stronzetto_ send men again?”

“Hmm? No.” Lucia plucked a heavy jeweled ring from the pouch, expression blank. “There is blood on this.”

“He’s not dead.” The Assassin did not need to justify his actions. They were _efficient._ “He claimed he did not have the full amount on hand - I proved he did.” 

“You-!” An attending flower yelped, cutting herself off as her sister sushed her with a panicked elbow to the ribs. Altaïr called up his second sight, checking his back without turning, and despite the lack of enemies he felt a chill snake down his spine. Amelia was present, but her playmate was not. Angelo was not.

His _fratellino_ was missing. 

With a silent snarl Altaïr whirled, ripping open the door and rushing down the hall toward the ghost of a golden path. He followed, scrambling up furniture and squeezing himself out a window that had never been intended for anything else but a bit of light and air. Altaïr latched onto rough brick and hauled himself to the garden’s roof.

_“Maria!”_

They flew. 

* * *

“This, this was a bad idea.” Desmond informs tiny Petruccio with a grimace. The memory can give Desmond a run for the chubbiest cheeks award, and he’s got to be, what, one? Two? He’s a hair shorter than Desmond and doesn’t seem at all sickly. Maybe this was a good day, or before he caught whatever it was took a shotgun to his immune system. 

Desmond raises a hand, body on autopilot as he considers his next move, but instead of patting the -slightly- smaller boy’s head it passes through. Petruccio fades, still smiling at a brother who exists somewhen else and does not get lost in cities.

What he wouldn’t give for a minimap about now. 

Desmond dragged his hands down his face and blew a raspberry. The idea had been so simple it was practically elegant. How does one stop the Bleeding Effect from dragging up old memories? Make new ones. But with his big brother around he couldn’t very well do that, not without telling him the truth, so he’d just take the opportunity when he could and hit all the major landmarks he could remember from Ezio’s decade or so haunting the city. 

But he couldn’t even do that, because he was the _worst_ Assassin. “I am the worst Assassin.” 

Venice was so much bigger than he remembered - but then he’d forgotten that Rebecca’s Baby had squished everything down. It hadn’t been like Abstergo’s Animus. Hers didn’t leech detail and color in the name of efficiency but the environments it generated had been just that, generated. Desmond had never understood the techinicals, but for him to go through Ezio’s memories while Shaun and Rebecca and _Lucy_ watched in real time, sacrifices had to be made. It would have been impossible to experience 40ish years of life in the months they’d had otherwise. Even when skipping things like eating and sleeping and… carousing. 

Ezio had done a lot of _carousing_ to cope with his, well, everything _._ It sucked. A guy shouldn’t have to pay to feel human. Which was what made his brother’s preferred babysitters such a trial. Lovely ladies, all of them, but there were things a man did not need to know.

And now he was lost, and tired, and really, really wishing he was back at the brothel with his warm milk and soft bed, Federico gently petting him awake. Desmond sighed. He needed a viewpoint, and preferably one that he wouldn’t break his neck reaching. Desmond slipped between the wheels of a slow moving cart and headed for a nice spot of shade.

A quick rest, and then he’d move on, find somewhere safe to wait for Maria who would screech like nothing else-

“And just where are you going, _tesoro mio?”_ Oh, oh he knew that purr. He’d felt it come out of his own throat often enough. But a back alley? There wasn’t even a decent place to lay down. She must have been very, very pretty or Ezio had been feeling particularly morose. 

Desmond turned to see the bane of his brother’s existence, neck arching to look up into the shadowed hood, eyes widening. A grin slowly spread across the Master Assassin’s face, and under gleaming eyes and a patchy beard he appeared the very definition of a madman. Was this what Ezio’s victims saw before the hidden blade sunk home? 

Involuntarily, Desmond hiccuped, feeling himself stiffen under the intensity of the ghost’s gaze. Ezio stepped closer. Dirt crunched under the weight of a leather boot. That, that wasn’t right… 

_“Figlio mio…”_

Desmond caught sight of a familiar shadow over Ezio’s shoulder -Ezio, alive and real and he knew he knew he _wanted_ \- and stood in a daze as his brother leapt off the roof and came crashing down with all the precision of a hunting hawk.

And thus Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Master Assassin and Greatest Mentor the Brotherhood Would Ever Know... was felled by a scrawny, prepubescent child.

Huh.

Definitely Altaïr.

* * *

Altaïr crashed into the so-called Assassin, bringing the pommel of his dagger against the back of the man’s head with the force of his fall. The collision was audible, even with the layered fabric of the hood muffling it, and without missing a beat he rolled off the downed man and swept his foolish, beloved little brother up into his arms. Now he’s running, Maria’s feathers brushing against the back of his head as she shoots past him, climbing back into the sky to watch for pursuit and call warning if need be.

The world is awash in gray fog, and he can’t hear anything over the rapid thuds of his pulse in his ears, not even Angelo’s confused questions and demands to wait, to stop, to know _why did you do that, Altaïr?_

Altaïr doesn’t have the breath to spare for an answer, instead clutching Angelo closer as he moves around groups of people with the grace of a dancer. His brother grows quiet, tiny hands gripping like claws, agitation leaving ripples of emerald in his aura. Ezio Auditore is Angelo’s father, Altaïr knows, he was the entire reason mother packed them up and brought them to the city.

It was said the Auditore ruled Monteriggioni, where gentle hills were filled with black-hearted mercenaries and a town grew fat on thieves and whores. Everyone knew it.

Everyone.

It would be so easy to infiltrate such a town, to sneak into the Lord’s villa and take his child, ransom him (kill him) when there are no defenses but overconfident walls and drunken soldiers. All it would take to siege the place is sufficient desire. Its greatest protection being that its greatest target never stays there long. Giving his _fratellino_ over to his sire would be a death sentence.

Altaïr hates gondolas.

He vaults over a bridge anyway, startling the two passengers and their pilot as his back slaps into the flat bottom of the boat. The impact knocks every last bit of air out of him and sets the whole thing to rocking dangerously with the gondolier himself nearly losing his perch. _“Che palle!”_

His brother’s feathery head looks up, his sweet voice issues an apology, and Altaïr spares a second to watch as Maria makes wide wheels in the blue sky above them. Altaïr sits up with a groan, eyeing the passengers (civilians, artists by the charcoal staining their fingers and the marked up sheets in their hands) and the annoyed and wary but not _red_ gondolier.

With shaking fingers Altaïr reaches into the folds of his sash and carefully removes a silver ring. “Cannaregio, _per favore.”_

They’ll have to abandon their home. It was never meant to be permanent, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Altaïr doesn't think Ezio would want him, too.


	36. Chapter Twenty Seven 3/3

Touches, feather light, caress his face. Nimble fingers play at his neck, a teasing tickle, before questing between the folds of his robes. Ezio let out an appreciative groan, giving those careful hands pause. He could not remember how much he’d drunk the night before, and hoped he had not disappointed his lover. 

The thought stuck in his aching mind like a fly in amber, and Ezio felt himself frowning as the hands resumed their play, brushing along his ribs. The bed was unusually uncomfortable. He’d no doubt drunk, certainly, though even the strongest wine was unable to warm him some nights… but he had not indulged  _ this _ particular vice in some time, especially after the disaster with Paola’s Sister. Those few times he’d visited a bordello it had been on the trail of his children, or to engage its services for a bed - not a bedmate. 

He’d increasingly found himself unable to stomach Antonio’s hospitality, particularly as the man’s temperament worsened.  _ Nothing too concerning, amico mio, the guardsmen have been recruiting as was expected. Why don’t you thin their ranks a bit?  _

One of the hands flattened, the full length of a wide palm pressing to his side, patting, searching, and Ezio’s eyes snapped open as a growl issued from his throat. Light seared his vision and he blinked away tears, reaching for the  _ stronzo _ that was attempting to rob him. The bastard yelped, dodging Ezio’s grasp with the expertise of a coward.

“Messere! Apologies, I meant no harm!” Though his vision was blurred, Ezio did not have to be a genius of Leonardo’s calibre to see the lie for what it was. “You were unconscious! Injured! I was only concerned!”

“Concerned for my purse, I’m sure.” Ezio can feel a distinct lack where it should be, his doublet loose beneath his Assassin regalia and when he reached for a throwing knife he found naught but empty sheaths. 

“To pay a  _ dottore! _ I am but a poor man! Help! Help please!” The thief darted to the side and began scrambling up a ladder, shouting for aid as he fled to the rooftops in panic. Another traitor to the guild? Ezio lurched forward -an unsettling sensation of grit between his toes- and despite the tilting world the Assassin latched onto the ladder, shaking it.

Like ripe fruit from a tree, the thief fell to earth with a scream and a whimper. Ezio kicked the man’s chest, memory trickling back in painful fits.

His boys. They had been in arm’s reach. Healthy and whole and wonderfully  _ fierce! _ And now they were gone, again, with this cowardly, pitiful thing in their place. Ezio swallowed back bile as pride warred with despair in his aching heart.

He may have been disarmed while defenseless -no doubt his blades were marked to be sold and melted down by an equally disreputable smith- but his hidden blades remained so. He circled his prey, the short blades emerging from his bracers as silently as a cat’s claws, settling in a bit of protective shadow. He scowled as starbursts cleared. The _ pezzo di merda _ was wearing his boots! “Get up, you spineless coward.” 

“Messere, please...” With shaking hands and a snot filled, ruddy nose, the man reached into layers of patched clothing and removed Ezio’s money pouch, setting it on the ground and backing away in an awkward, hunched bow. “...I only wanted to eat…”

“My shoes.” Ezio glared, and despite the pain that spiked from his eyes to the back of his head and down to his bare, unprotected toes -like his son, his precocious, adorable boy- took in the truth of the man. He was no murderer. No better or worse than many in his ally’s employ and yet looking at him made the Assassin rage.

Was it because he’d dare to steal from _Ezio?_ From _il_ _Assassino?_ How many times would thieves and pickpockets target him, test him, like he was some sort of novice? La Volpe’s messengers… Antonio’s missions… 

“Do you know who I am,  _ fava?” _

The thief wavered, balanced on one leg as he removed Ezio’s boots. “A gentle, forgiving, just soul?”

Ezio flipped his father’s hood back up, and the man became akin to a ghost, dropping Ezio’s second shoe and tearing out of the alley as though he’d seen a demon. Ezio knelt down to reclaim his property, weighing his purse in his hand and humming in approval at the additional weight. Boots in hand, he collapsed on a half broken crate and burst into giggles.

The shoes thudded into the filth as he clutched at his mouth.  _ Dio _ , laughter hurt. But he couldn’t stop. Tears welled up once more, as he reached for the back of his head and came away with bloody fingers. His nephew had attacked him! Him! Ezio! An experienced Assassin looming over a little brother and he simply attacks, drops from the sky like the vicious little demon rumors claimed. 

Like an Assassin.

“Oh, _ fratello mio _ … he truly is your son, Federico.” The longing sweeps over him like a tide, setting him to rock like a  _ child _ as he curls up, embracing himself and wishing it was his own brother’s arms around him.

It’s how Ugo finds him; the honorable thief winded and confused and slipping Ezio’s discarded weapons back into their proper places, speaking lowly of retrieving a doctor. 

* * *

Altaïr paced their attic room, eyes skipping between the box of loose papers of his newest codex, to the basket of spare clothes, to tools and toys and to Angelo himself. His little brother is unhappy, nose scrunched as he aggressively rubs mud from his feet. It comes off in chunks, little flakes of evidence that they don’t have the time to clean up. They need to go. Ezio Auditore may be a piss-poor Assassin with the subtlety of peacock in rut but his track record for locating his targets was impeccable. 

No. Altaïr stops, takes a deep breath, and holds it. Bemoaning the problem is a child’s habit - he needs to focus on the solution. With a long, slow exhale he considers his options. If Angelo’s father has the Eyes of the Eagle it is only a matter of time, as long as it takes him to recover from Altaïr’s strike, before the man discovers their hideaway. The gondola would throw him off for a bit, tracking over running water is near useless without line of sight, but they had certainly left witnesses in the two apprentices and their pilot.

He will know the district they reside in, and if he manages to backtrack Angelo’s path he could well learn more. 

And as galling as it is to admit Altaïr doubts his abilities against a grown Assassin, experienced and aware. His child’s body simply didn’t have the reach. It would be like fighting his wife. Two of them.

A thought occurs. Altaïr frowns, hands squeezing into fists. He had forgotten his pay. He could have taken it out himself before handing over the debtor’s purse, but it had seemed like an unwise use of time so close to the man’s home and allies. 

_ “Fratello?”  _ His brother is not in his nest. He’s tugging at the frayed ends of Altaïr’s sash, nibbling on one lip with worry. “Why did we run? He was a little scary, I think he needed a nap, but he was blue.”

There is no easy way to talk about the twisting in his guts; at the many ways a brotherhood can fail. Sef was supposed to be safe. Masyaf was supposed to be secure. Malik was far wiser than he’d ever be, and even he missed the betrayal brewing under their nose. Altaïr says none of this. Instead he kneels down and presses his forehead against his brother’s and lets himself exist. Then he says, “We’re moving, pack only what you can carry, everything else stays.”

They won’t be coming back for it.  _ Il Assassino _ has friends among the thieves, and assigning one to watch the place is a precaution even an idiot would take. 

His brother blinked at him, confusion curdling into suspicion.  _ “Perché? _ Where are we going? And why?”

“Pack, please.” Altaïr has always tried to lead by example, and so turns to do exactly that. He cannot bring the oven he was working on, it’s too bulky and the feathers will make a mess if he tries, but he’s got the beginning sketches for a new blade and that isn’t something he can let just anyone find. 

A plank of wood vibrates from a little foot slamming into it. “No.”

The reborn Assassin glances up from the sheaf of papers he’s sorting; what needs to be burned and what he’s bringing with him.  _ “Fratellino,  _ we don’t have- _ ” _

“No!” The expression on his brother’s face is new. It is not a child’s face, but someone much, much older. He’s baring his teeth and his gaze is distant and drifting, looking in Altaïr’s direction but also not. “Tell. Me. There  _ is  _ time. There is always time! You just don’t want to, to, to-!”

A single word blasts past the stutters. It is not  _ Italiano. _ It’s a slap to the face, and his little brother is jerking at the collar of his gown while looking like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how. 

“...Sef?”

The papers fall from his hands, meaningless. His son had died thinking Altaïr had ordered his death. Had he followed him back into life, the memory of that betrayal stopping his tongue? Did he think Altaïr had been disappointed in him?

Mother’s last gift bows his head, mouth trembling as he stares at his feet, knuckles white. “N-no.”

Carefully, as though he’s stalking a target, Altaïr returns to his brother’s side. “...Kadar?”

_ “No.” _ Angelo rapidly shakes his head at that, looking more sick than scared, but it is telling that he would know who Kadar was. Only the most senior of their Brotherhood had remembered Malik’s younger brother… Altaïr falls to his knees, the search and escape taking their toll as his mind reels. 

If anything happened to Angelo he would kill the one responsible, and then himself. And yet Malik had forgiven him.

Startled, his brother looks up. “Altaïr…?”

Ezio lost a brother. Two of them.

The Mentor of the Levantine Brotherhood reaches out, and with a single finger against a baby soft cheek directs his brother to meet his gaze. As ever, his brother is a beautiful combination of gold and blue, tempered though it is with fear. “Who are you,  _ fratellino?” _

For the longest time his brother says nothing, lips pressing tight as something moves like a leviathan through his mind.

“Who do you want to be?” Altaïr asks, softer.

His little brother shatters. There is no other word for it. All the tears that had refused to come spill down his face and his aura flickers as the blue veined gold breaks and shifts and it is a bright ocean with glimmering waves of importance. 

Small arms open in question. 

Altaïr accepts, wrapping tired limbs around his  _ fratellino _ and stroking his back. The Mentor cannot begin to guess who his little brother was. A mystery for later. For now, he presses a kiss to Angelo’s hair.  _ “Fratellino _ mio.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond was never going to reveal his name as Desmond, he's concerned that if Ezio found out and what with the prophecy to 'Desmond' that might screw things up somehow, but I was going to have him reveal is real age... and then Altaïr had to go and offer him a choice, which no one has done before and he just turned into a puddle of feels.


	37. Chapter Twenty Eight

“I do not think this wise, Ezio.” La Volpe cautioned as they made their way through the venetian night. The moon was only half full, like the smile on a woman’s portrait, but it was more than enough light for the two men. And with Leonardo pouring tea into his cups -hot and bitter, so much he’d thought he might burst- he hadn’t been so clear headed in days. Weeks?

“Perhaps not,” Ezio agreed, stifling the smile in his voice. His head was still tender where Federico had struck him, but the world had stopped spinning. His humors had settled. Only wonder remained. Little Federico would keep their youngset safe until Ezio found them and took that burden from his shoulders. Of that he was certain. “But they are family.”

The look Volpe gave him was shadowed by the man’s own hood and the night itself. “And if it is a trap? What better bait than blood to draw out _il Assassino?”_

Ezio’s smile flipped, though he carefully did not look in the other’s direction as they leapt the space between buildings. The Assassin landed heavily on a wooden platform, setting buckets of dried mortar to wobbling. A forgotten spade rolled off with a wince inducing clatter on the empty street below. He had indeed considered such a plot, many times, when the night was at its coldest and his arms were empty and he knew he had been so, so close.

It was one of the unspoken reasons he still pushed for the death of Marco Barbarigo. The man may not keep the same stranglehold on the markets that his cousin had, but his throne was a bloody one. A True Deceiver and a Templar, Ezio had feared the man discovered his child and taken the infant out of the Sister’s care. 

From what he’d learned from wine soaked whispers it wouldn’t be the first time Marco had broken a family, stealing loved ones with all the legality of a papal bull.

 _A larger palazzo. Two new steeds. A prettier bride..._

“Then I will answer in blood, as I have always done.” If he had found his children only to have them _captured_ … he cared not what Antonio or Volpe thought. He would march right up to the front gates of the Palazzo Ducale, and wade through as many bodies as necessary until he reached his son. His nephew. _His boys_. “You cannot dissuade me.”

“You have a concussion, _ragazzo._ ”

“Do I?” He can’t keep the lilting danger from his tone. He’s hunted enemies and fought in worse condition. Had he not proven himself, time and again? Why such concern now? 

The transition into the Cannaregio district was not as simple as crossing a bridge, though the deeper they went the more obvious the change. The bones of the buildings are good, left behind when the original owners built larger, more ostentatious palazzo elsewhere. Since then the second hand homes have seen an ever changing populace, with various levels of care taken to maintain the structures.

Which means there is more than enough scaffolding to facilitate a straight path to their goal. Ezio lands beside the Fox of Florence, and there is a gap in tiles like a broken toothed mouth, eating what little light the night offers. No sign that a pair of little someones had made such a place their home. And yet, as he looks a second time, with the same Sight his grandfather had the hole crackles white and gold, like a warm, welcoming fire. 

When the Thief grabs his arm only the fact that he burns blue keeps the Assassin from breaking his wrist and throwing him off the roof. _“Che cosa?”_

“Ezio… be careful.”

Shaking the other man off, Ezio drops into the dark room with a ruffle of fabric and a wishful call of, _“Bambini?”_

Ezio’s heart sinks a little as he takes in the room. A wide space, open, fairly clean if cluttered with the signs of a quick exit. Empty. Something shifts, like a curtain kissed by the wind, and in the barest strip of moonlight a specter sits, quill in hand, scribbling with _intent_ as an even smaller form rests a head on the echo’s thigh, sleeping _._ But the planks that serve as a table are cold when he touches them, nothing in the bronze burning bowl but dark ashes and pale scraps of paper.

He recognizes the paper, too, he’s ripped his own image off of city walls to know it by feel. It has to mean _something,_ but what?

“Ezio?” Volpe is crouched beside a pile of old rags and dirty cushions. “You should see this.”

The is a message scrawled on the floor. The letters are fat and awkward and _deliberate._ A child’s fingers pressing against the wood, marks overlapping in haste, glowing with importance. The sketch of his nephew feels like a hot ember where it presses against his breast. The words dancing over the wood have not been written with ink, or paint, but with _intent._

Like the secret, secondary messages in the Codex. 

His boys-!

* * *

 **_S_** _alve!_ Our mother named me Angelo, and my brother is Federico and he loves me very much. You are Ezio? I am sorry Federico hit you, he thought you were trying to steal me away. I am very stealable, people have tried it before, and am yet too small to steal myself back.

 **A** re you sleeping enough, Ezio? Sometimes I can’t sleep, so Federico holds me and then my dreams are not so bad. You should find someone to hold you. I lo...


	38. Chapter Twenty Nine

Madonna Rossi’s shears were sharp, and glided through the carefully waxed linen with rare ease. Coming to the end of his cut, Altaïr glanced up to check on his brother. Half-dressed, grinning, and once again barefoot, the novice was feeding Madonna Rossi’s goat with the weeds he’d taken it upon himself to uproot from the herb garden two homes over. Without asking or being asked, which meant he wouldn’t be paid for the work, but considering the use he was putting the prickly plants to perhaps that was preferable.

Such work was good for building stamina and stealth, and if the goat ate all the evidence of trespass no one could accuse his little brother of stealing.

At a soft intake of breath Altaïr’s attention flicked Madonna Rossi. The woman sat by the washtub, staring at the shirt that was now dripping all over her apron. Her hands were wrinkled from scrubbing, and she rubbed a thumb over a pinkish smudge with sad, shadowed eyes. It wasn’t blood.

Altaïr was very familiar with the kinds of stains blood left behind and that was not it. But it possessed a resistance to the soapy water that was familiar. 

The smudge was of a shade far lighter than any flower would wear; the women of the gardens always went for deeper reds, like a pomegranate, to tempt men into their beds. Pink was youth. Innocence. Health and respectability. Status.

Which would explain why he hadn’t managed to locate Messere Rossi in any of the usual haunts of unfaithful men.

The Assassin set the shears aside and took up his needle instead. He hummed as he folded fabric and sewed hems, toes curling at the thought of just what he would do to the man who made such a woman sigh.  _ Miseria _ still haunted her spirit, clinging to the shadows of her empty home and the slump in her shoulders.

Madonna Rossi tossed her husband’s shirt back into the tub with a silent snarl. The thin garment hit the water with a splash, floating like a pale corpse amid the colorful doublets and brighter hose. Altaïr blinked. “Madonna?”

“I thought I saw a bee.” She lied, wiping her hands on a rare dry spot on her apron before looking over Altaïr’s work. Her voice rose in question. “A tabard?” 

“Similar.” The Assassin hedged. “ _ Fratellino! _ Come here, please.” 

His little brother bounced over, the goat attempting to follow before reaching the end of its rope. Angelo frowned down at Altaïr’s work, the corner of his lip disappearing between his teeth in what was becoming a habit. He tucked his hands into the back of his breeches. “I don’t want to wear a dress.”

Madonna Rossi chuckled, “It is not a dress,  _ Angelito.”  _

“Arms up.”

His  _ fratellino _ raised his arms with a resigned huff (so childish, so young, he’d known many Assassins who died before they achieved the rank of Master) and let Altaïr pull the sleeveless robe down over his head. The tails dragged on the ground, but that was intentional: his novice had plenty of room to grow into the robes, if he chose. 

The littlest Assassin pinched the baggy linen between his thumbs and forefingers, bobbing at the knees before performing a twirl. “You’re right. It isn’t a dress. It is a tent!”

“If you didn’t run around like a heathen it would fit better.” Altaïr grumbled, putting a hand on his brother’s head as the boy giggled. He eyeballed out how much material would need to be taken in, marking the sections with chalk. “It is meant to go over shirt and breeches - unless you prefer something more close fitting? Hose and codpiece?”

The utter horror that spread across his little brother’s face brought a smile to his own. Pulling his brother close, he tied a strip of silk around his waist as a belt, and tugged the robes up until they stopped dragging in the dirt. It made a small paunch around Angelo’s stomach, all the better for concealing whatever a young novice might want to be carrying. Pleased, Altaïr reached for the very first piece he’d sewn together a week ago while they sheltered under an upturned gondola waiting for the rain to stop.

It was a simple hood that upon first look matched the rough, waxed weave of the surcoat, but second inspection revealed the pink silk lining that had once been a part of the last of their mother’s dresses.

Like the sash.

Angelo took the hood from Altaïr’s hands with a quiet solemnity, running his finger along the smooth interior before donning it. Only the smallest hint of a smile was visible in the sudden shadows. Altaïr smoothed out the ends, laying the fabric flat on his little brother’s chest and shoulders. “It should repel dirt as well as water, and won’t take on so much weight as wool if it does get wet.”

_ “Grazie, fratello.” _ Angelo closed the distance between them with a lurch, face pressed against Altaïr’s chest. His next words were muffled, but clear.  _ “Ana bahibik.”  _

Madonna Rossi excused herself for dinner preparations, and Altaïr stroked his brother’s hair as he hummed mother’s songs.

It was a very nice day.

Warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr invents water resistant clothing a few hundred years early, because that is how he rolls. Fuck water.
> 
> That Poor Clothier: You want to do WHAT to the fabric?!  
> Altaïr: MOAR BEES!!
> 
> Desmond swaps to Arabic right at the end there, supposed to be "I love you."
> 
> I go to bed now...


	39. HALLOWEEN SPECIAL: SEMI-CANON

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter inspired by the thought of Desmond trying to explain the history and traditions of Halloween and Altaïr boiling it down to, "Carnevale, with Extortion."

Today was a good day. No. It was an excellent day. It was market day. They had nowhere to be and nothing to do but enjoy themselves -though Altaïr would inevitably interrogate the other children that were not so lucky as them- and Desmond intended to take full advantage. After proving that he was older than he looked, he was even allowed his own petty cash!

The question was, what to spend it on?

As they passed a carpenter's stall his eye slid over one of those miniature manikin things, and his hand went to his waist. Had Ezio gone back and gotten one for Leonardo? The artist had so rarely asked for anything, and it seemed so small. A test of skill on the part of the carver, most likely, to ensure the joints moved smoothly while working at such a small scale.

“ _Fratellino?”_ His brother quickly ate the distance that had grown between them and put a hand on his shoulder. “Did you find something?”

Desmond dug his toe into the dirt and glanced at his brother, not looking up. The older boy was examining the stall with an intensity that left the poor woman manning it sweating. All too quickly his Sight settled in on the anatomy figure and understanding softened his expression. Desmond felt himself blush, stomach fluttering as Altaïr grabbed the thing to pass it to Desmond. He received an approving pat to his hooded head. “...I'm not a child.”

Altaïr did not smirk. But his eyes turned into self-satisfied slits in the shadows of his own hood, only visible by the light they were emitting. “And that is not a toy. Of course, Angelo. Everything is permitted.”

As the heat in his cheeks -thankfully hidden by his hood- increased to volcanic levels at the added cooing of the carpenter's wife, Desmond carefully counted his coins into her palm.

“Such a smart boy! You must be very proud of him, _Passerotto.”_

Altaïr grunted; at least it was a happy grunt.

“Though, I think you should know. There have been questions this past week or so, about children. And not just the usual sorts asking – the Doge's men, too. Of course _I_ only see little birds in the market, don't I?” She tittered as Desmond tucked his much reduced purse and the new model into the folds of his belt, the same way Altaïr did. “Now, you get going before my husband gets back. Shoo!”

As they continued on Altaïr's gaze occasionally wandered toward the roofs, watchful. Suspicious. It made Desmond want to sigh. His big brother was just so stubborn, like a cranky old man set in his ways telling the kids to get off his lawn. How was going to give Leonardo his present if Ezio never introduced them? It would be weird to have some random guy coming up to give him something... though, come to think of it, it wouldn't be weird for a _kid_ to do that. Children did all sorts of stupid things, and Stranger Danger wasn't really a _thing_ yet.

“I _am_ a child...” Desmond mused, keeping one hand on his brother's sash.

Altaïr made a noise of agreement, taking him by the shoulder and maneuvering them both out of the way of a horse driven cart bearing crates. The wheels splashed water that dripped right off their clothes, and as Desmond scowled -it was more of a pout, really, his cheeks were too round to be anything like intimidating- in solidarity at the thoughtless driver he caught a flash of bright orange being carried away.

It niggled something in the back of his mind. He wrapped the tail of Altaïr's sash-belt around his hand and tugged, pointing dramatically. “Quick! I wanna see what they have!”

* * *

After first checking to be sure it wasn't already occupied, they took to the roofs. His little brother became a monkey clinging to his back like he was still a babe, but unlike a babe he weighed more than he had back then. It was good training, and Altaïr focused on his breathing as his little brother handled the navigation.

After all, Altaïr couldn't care less about the cart but it was _important_ to his little brother. And once Altaïr broke him out of the habit of Seeing with sight alone walls became suggestions instead of barriers. His little brother squirmed as they approached their end goal, the cart had been stalled by a wall of guards with weapons; a large difference from small children and peasants easily ignored and bowled over.

A man perched beside the driver yelled, “Clear the way! Business for the Doge! Fruit from the New World!”

His little brother gasped. “I was right! He's got pumpkins!”

“What's a pumpkin?” And how did he know what a pumpkin was? Altaïr considered the distance between themselves and the stopped cart. With a running start he could make the distance, certainly, but despite claiming to be full of fruit it did not look like the softest of landings.

Angelo sat on the roof, little legs dangling over the edge as he nibbled his lip. “It's like, a gourd? Kind of? The big round orange things, though they got some white and green ones too... and covered in warts, apparently.”

Altaïr joined his little brother as he caught his breath, watching with amusement as the man -diplomat?- in expensive clothing argued with the guards. The Doge was a coward who didn't leave the palace. Why would the man think he would be let in on the basis of _fruit?_

“Though I don't know why he's calling them fruits. A pumpkin is a vegetable. Tomatoes are fruits, though, oh hey! He's got some tomato plants, too! You think we can tell everyone they're poisonous? Then there will be more pizza sauce for us! I haven't had a pizza in ages.”

“ _Fratellino.”_ Altaïr stroked his brother's hair. It was just like his, and would need to be cut soon. “Why are the pumpkins important?”

“Well...” His little brother's excitement banked. Altaïr's interest peaked. He'd begun to suspect that Angelo had not been from Masyaf itself, but one of the branches he'd established. Or perhaps another, a branch from a branch. Had the Brotherhood grown like Ancient Rome, becoming a beast so large it could no longer support itself and collapsed? Was that why the only legacy left was a half-trained, half-idiot? “It's just... when I was little... the first time... there was this holiday. Technically pagan, I guess. Around the end of the harvest season you carve shapes and faces and stuff into pumpkins and put a light inside. It supposed to scare away bad things, I think? Oh! And all the kids dressed up with masks and went around to all the houses, Trick-or-Treat, to get candy.”

“Trick-or-Treat?”

“Yeah. I never got to go, though. No one at the Farm did. It wasn't really... it wasn't a thing, for us.”

Altaïr hummed. “It sounds like _Carnevale_ , with extortion.”

“What?! No!” Angelo moaned, swaying in as he dragged the last syllable of Altaïr's name out.

“Candied fruit is extremely expensive, _Fratellino,_ the cost of the sugar alone... I can't imagine that it would just be given to any child that comes to one's door.”

“That's not! The point!” Angelo huffed and crossed his arms. “It doesn't have to be candy. Can be fruit, or toys, or anything really...”

Altaïr watched as the cart was finally let through, a mailed fist taking the reigns while curious civilians were moved along with brandished pole arms. He shifted closer to his slumped brother and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Angelo did not like to talk about his previous life, and while he used Altaïr's name on the occasion when they were alone he had never spoken of any name but that which their mother had given him.

And he had not so subtly hinted that he wanted a father, that _il Assassino_ would be a good one, if they just tried.

It made Altaïr wonder who he was comparing _l'idiota_ to, if Ezio Auditore was considered the _good_ one.

“Why not...” Altaïr said.

“ _Fratello?”_

Altaïr bared his teeth. “I would like to try this Trick-or-Treat. Sounds... interesting.”

Venice was filled with children that would find such a social contract worth signing.

“...oh no.”

* * *

Desmond looked into his sack with a sigh. This was karma, he was sure. It was his fault for telling his big brother about _Il Carnevale de Bambini_ and bringing it into the world.

“Whatcha get?” Madame Lucia's daughter, Amelia asked. She had a strip of silk wrapped around her face with eye holes cut out like some sort of green highwayman. She held her prize proudly. “I got a ribbon!”

Valentino, surprisingly dressed in an actual dress for once held up one of her own. “Same.”

Desmond sighed, and offered his own gift. “I got a rock.”

“Is that so.” His big brother, wearing a hood that had cat ears added to it, hissed menacingly. “Is. That. So.”

Unaware of the danger, little Amelia innocently asked, “What did you get, 'Rico?”

“Permission to... _malizia.”_ Federico plucked the rock from Desmond's hand and weighed it in his palm. “Tell me, _Fratellino,_ were you ever taught the use of a sling?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, this chapter is only Semi-Canon because Columbus hasn't started his colonization spree, yet alone had enough time to get back with stuff. 
> 
> But Desmond totally did by a little model for Leonardo while insisting it wasn't a toy, not that anyone believed him. And Ezio's desperation to find the babies has finally leaked to the Templars, which are now also trying to find the boys.


	40. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo continues to thirst. Ezio's obliviousness will drive the poor man mad, but at least he's learning subtly now?

Leonardo did not wish to rise from his bed, but he wished even less to send the duvet for cleaning, so he squinted against cruel morning light and stumbled his way to the chamber pot. Taking himself in hand, Leonardo sighed as the relief that followed very nearly matched that which was found in the embrace of a young lover. As he made his contribution to the dyer’s guild, he tried to remember what he had been doing the night before.

Drinking. That much was obvious in the amount of piss in the pot.

Why had he been drinking? The artist dipped his fingertips into a cup of three day old tea before patting them dry on the cloth he used for his brushes. His mind felt like he was still half in bed, his mouth full of unwashed wool, and an ache behind his eyes spiked everytime his face tilted toward the wide window. He considered pulling the curtain, but that would just put him closer to the source of his pain and there was a lovely bowl of fruit waiting in the other room.

Unless his apprentices had eaten it instead of recreating the play of shadow and light amongst the differently shaped forms, of course.

Leonardo rescued his hat from where it had been abandoned atop an armoire, putting it into place and feeling a bit more like himself as he did so. Satisfied, he slipped into the dimly lit hall and made for the parlor turned workshop. The familiar sounds of shuffling and whispered curses -Benvolio was probably having his usual difficulties getting the canvas properly stretched- in the dim lighting eased the maestro back into the day.

The sight that met him when he reached the main chamber nearly had him convinced he was still dreaming as the memory of pouring wine, pouring over old parchment, happily fighting rest after a terribly long day of terribly boring conversation unfolded like a flower toward an indecent sun. 

He had been preparing for bed when Ezio had arrived. The Assassin had slipped through Leonardo’s window as pale and soundless as any specter, handsome brow furrowed. 

_Mi scuse, amico mio. I had not realized it was so late. I shall leave you to your rest._

_Nonsense! I always have time for you, Ezio. Prego, you have come all this way the least I can do is offer you a drink._

And drink they had, as Ezio looked over Leonardo’s notes and theories on his predecessor’s Codex. One particular page had caught his eye. It bore an image of pure blasphemy. The sun sat as a centerpiece among the spheres in place of Earth, while the other celestial bodies spun out in an hierarchy just as heretical. But that was not what captured the Assassin’s attention. It was the secret text and Leonardo’s poor translation; the script had been a first for the Codex, some language of the Orient that was as unfamiliar to Altaïr’s hand as it was Ezio’s. 

It made the translation difficult even after locating an amicable merchant with enough knowledge to offer insight and what little he was certain of was that the page described an account of the Brotherhood’s founder, his wife, and son traveling through the then Mongol Empire. 

An entire paragraph detailing how after meeting with Qulan Gal, a name that had caught on the younger man’s ears and drew his regard from a half finished sketch to Leonardo’s half dressed self, the Assassins exchanged mail and robes for layered fur and linens after the local fashion. The description of Maria’s dress had been so detailed that the old merchant had laughed, Leonardo’s face burning as red as his hat, as his copy of a copy was returned under the assumption of it being nothing more incriminating than an old love letter.

Upon hearing that Ezio had fingered the front fold of his clothes, tracing the lines that converged under the exposed strip of his chest, voice thoughtful.

_I do not remember ever seeing my Father wearing these, though they held his scent for nearly two weeks..._

It had been an intriguing discussion that followed. On honor, pride, _vergogna_ , and the look of a thing. Why were the robes white, flashy and so easily stained from their bloody purpose, when it was the unseen blade that made the killing blow? He felt as though he’d become Socrates as they went in delightfully speculative circles all through the night, until his body had given out with a wide yawn and his friend begged forgiveness.

He’d assumed Ezio had left so as to not tip off the sleeping apprentices.

_“Ezio, che stai facendo?”_

He’d been wrong.

The Assassin was standing in the workshop, a half dressed shadow against shuttered windows, white regalia folded on a chair as he struggled with a bloody doublet. Dark eyes gleamed in the low light, an embarrassed chuckle escaping as the killer’s elbow became trapped in a twist of the sleeve. “Ah, Leonardo, did I wake you?”

“Not at all.” The maestro hid a grin behind his hand and cupped his chin, glancing around the shop to avoid staring at the ridiculousness that was Auditore. A hissed curse and the distinct sound of tearing fabric brought on a wince and Leonardo hoped his face wasn’t as bright as it felt. “Allow me, _amico mio.”_

He skirted around the paper and paint covered table to take the Assassin in hand and carefully thread his arm out of the loosened sleeve. Even in the dim light the problem was obvious. The doublet and sleeves were too small for Ezio’s broad back. The ties had turned into impossible knots as the man tried to force the fit, and was that one of Leonardo’s shirts he wore beneath it? The familiar lace at the cuffs only made the artist’s face burn hotter. “May I ask what, exactly, this is about?”

Ezio glanced at Leonardo, the gaze that sent shivers down his spine flickering around the shop before the Assassin let out a full body sigh. “You know, of course, that my boys are… clever.”

“Hmm. I’d think you would be proud.”

A sad little laugh shook those unfairly burdened shoulders. Leonardo’s heart shrunk painfully in his chest as he offered what comfort he could. When Ezio’s hanging head swung around to face the maestro his smile was a brittle thing full of cracks. “I’m not the only one looking, of course, but… few are willing to speak to an _Assassino_ about missing children. And I can not fault them for their caution. But if father and Federico and even the _Founder_ could hide in another skin, then maybe I too could mingle in plain sight? It wouldn’t be a betrayal of the Creed, it _wouldn’t._ ”

“Of course not.” Leonardo glanced at the fabric in his hand. The doublet looked vaguely familiar. It was a deep red, darker than blood but brighter than wine, and eye catching. The embroidery was simple but well done, black swirls standing out against the red, and another memory bloomed past the wall of wine in his mind. “Oh… this was your brother's.”

Ezio’s warm back, like living brick, shifted uncertainly beneath his palm. “You were close?”

“Not very. He occasionally acted as escort for Madonna Maria when she visited my shop. He was…” The artist considered his words carefully. “Memorable.”

A lighter sort of laughter, like a bird welcoming the sunrise, filled the room. “That he was. I had these sent to give to little Federico, when I found him, I thought, I don’t know... “ Ezio rubbed at his flushed neck, and Leonardo’s stomach twisted. His feelings hid themselves behind a wry grin. 

“You’ve grown quite a bit from when we first met, Ezio. And from what I recall Federico Auditore had a habit of wearing his doublets a little too tight. Not an ounce of _pudore_ in him.”

“Oh, he had an ounce. If just the one. Mother never gave _him_ a lecture on appropriate outlets after leading angry fathers to our door.” Ezio’s expression grew firm, something soft smoothing over the cracks as Leonardo took his measure.

“Hmm. I doubt any of my apprentice’s things would fit you if these did not, though I’ve no idea where they are-”

“Boat races.” At Leonardo’s questioning look Ezio pointed to the ceiling and the exposed beams from which small scale models hung. “I overheard them when they came in, and you were still in bed so…”

Leonardo huffed, hair sliding forward as he shook his head in exasperation. “Of course, of course. I swear, _amico mio_ , I feel more their _madre_ than their _maestro_. No doubt they will return for supper, hungry and poor after gambling all their coin away.”

Ezio and Leonardo shared a look, _“Ragazzi.”_

Leonardo turned away, folding the old doublet and fussing with a pile of sketches as Ezio reached down to lift the soft linen of the borrowed shirt. He rolled a feather between his fingers. “I can recommend a tailor, if you like?”

“That’s not necessary. I will have some things made next time I’m in Monteriggioni.”

“Monteriggioni…?” Leonardo frowned, peaking over his shoulder as he heard the rustle of silks sliding over skin. Ezio was tugging his hair free from the robes, combing his fingers through the dark locks. He wasn’t so intimidating as the stories made him sound. Ezio’s was not a cruel soul.

Leonardo glanced at his empty hands.

There was never anyone so intimate with a body as he who clothed it. Of course Ezio would only want to engage someone whom he could be certain of.

“Why should my apprentices have all the fun at the races? I am a fair hand with needle and thread myself, Ezio. If you do not mind a bit of a wait, I can modify some of my own things to fit well enough. I’ve also some fabric samples, for the portraits, but if you see something you like I can put together a few things?”

 _“Leonardo.”_ Oh, his name never sounded so sinful. His knees trembled under the cover his shirt.

“It would be no different than when I did Madonna Maria’s commissions, _Assassino,_ if with considerably less paint.”

“Ah. Of course.”

When they eventually left the shop Ezio’s purse was considerably lighter, as was Leonardo’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter brought to you by **Nancy Drew and the Phantom of Venice!** Which I had just completed this past weekend, but it was a close thing. That last underground maze nearly killed me. It brought me to tears, even after breaking down and finding a walk through I *still* had to restart three times because I kept loosing track of where I was and which wheel I was supposed to be spinning. It all looks the saaaaame.
> 
> But I will probably insert Scopa into the fic at some point because I actually enjoyed that minigame even if I got my ass kicked more often than not.
> 
> Also, been reading _Daily Life In Renaissance Italy_ by Elizabeth & Thomas Cohen. Its a little dry in places, but the first hand accounts are really interesting. And kinda horrible? Like, apparently it was not uncommon for both parties having non-marital sex (sex workers don't count, as they were considered 'accepted' outlets) to get murdered by the girl's dad if marriage/restitution was not provided. Like, holy shit, that puts a whole new spin on Ezio and Christina and Christina's pissed as fuck father. Like, if Ezio couldn't climb roofs I'm thinking he would have been fucking murdered in the street and there would be no AC2. 
> 
> Also, also. Just. Leonardo using Ezio as a dress up doll. And going on a not-date, while Ezio plays up the visiting nobleman angle to get all the juicy gossip without having people scream and run away.
> 
> And the apprentices totally know their boss has a crush on the mysterious Assassin. I mean, who wouldn't? That man could make the straightest of straights question their leanings. They politely look the other way and take advantage of the distraction to skiv off duties.


	41. Chapter Thirty One 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond participates in his first mission!

Desmond has learned not to expect much at breakfast other than a kiss and a cuddle. There have been stretches of time where they don’t eat anything in the morning; which isn’t as strange as it sounds, in hindsight he can barely recall Ezio eating anything first thing. When they do have a morning meal it is usually scraps that Desmond refuses to consider the origin of, slightly burnt buns from a vendor, or a peasant’s porridge that if they were lucky had bits of fruit mixed in.

Before, his brother had been working on a _thing_ to make cooking simpler. Safer. A big box that wouldn’t burn the food or building down when inevitably left unattended. The sketches Federico had done reminded Desmond of a more modern oven, but there had been no heating coil, no power source, just a bread box built out of layers of frustration and feathers.

Desmond still doesn’t understand what it is with Assassins and feathers. It’s a thing. Leonardo’s fascination is with birds in general because _flight_ but before the runaway’s (and how accurate is that, now, with his _Fratello_ bundling them up every other week or so) bartending gig was cut short Desmond only considered them relative to how much shit they left on his sleeping spaces. And yet, when high atop the bridges and roofs of _Venecia_ he’s caught himself perched, listening for a distinct chime that was never really there to begin with. 

It was just an Animus affectation to help him through the memories. A little thrill of accomplishment when he found them damn things - like patting a dog on the head. Positive reinforcement. 

Yawning, Desmond shifted out of his mound of linens and pillows to crawl the short distance to the mostly banked fire and the small pot above it. Federico had made them porridge, and judging by the lazy sprawl had already eaten his portion. The farro was thick enough to make a spoon stand up if they had spoons. Federico had probably stirred it with one of their many knives. Hungry, the smallest Assassin wiped his hands as best he could on his sleep shirt and tried not to imagine dying from diptheria or something.

Desmond sighed.

The congealing mess was still warm as he sunk his fingers in and brought it to his mouth. It didn’t taste terrible. A bit nutty. He followed it with a drink of thrice boiled tea when his big brother passed over the cup.

Desmond was busy licking the pot clean under the watchful eye of the Master Assassin when said Master Assassin decided to drop a question like normal people dropped smoke bombs. “Would you like to accompany me on a mission today, _Fratellino?”_

Desmond startled, a flash of pain and pennies filling his mouth. _“...posso?”_

 _“Sarai perfetto.”_ Golden eyes narrowed, even as a hum of pleased agreement filled the hidden shack. Federico laid out on the ground, relaxed, feet twitching idly in the air behind him like the tip of a tail. 

Desmond felt a thrill of anticipation as he ran his sore tongue along the roof of his mouth. Someone was going to die. An older, wiser him should and probably would be concerned about taking a kid to an assassination. But not knowing hadn’t saved Petruccio. 

Connor’s village still burned.

Trying to stay out had got future/past him kidnapped and experimented on.

Beside. It was Federico, his big brother. As the reincarnation of Altaïr Ibn-La’ahad he was the Biggest of Brothers, one could say. Whoever the fuck it was like as not deserved it.

Desmond smiled and hugged the empty pot to his chest. “Does this mean I get a knife?”

* * *

Their quarry, according to a complicated chain of gossips Desmond lost track of half way through the explanation, would be located in one of the residential areas of the Cannaregio district. 

Federico slung a coil of rope slung around his chest to keep his hands free, and crossing over from San Marco by one of the public bridges made it easy to lose themselves in the flow of bodies. A quick dip down a side alley before anyone of note spots them and it is the work of seconds to scramble up one of the many unattended ladders that litter the district. Not that he needs it. He is an Assassin on a mission, after all, he doesn’t need to be babied. It’s just more efficient, with a toddler body. Despite the endless construction projects the Cannaregio hadn’t changed much since they abandoned that first home, though the two of them have to step with more care and caution than they ever had when it was a simple journey to safety and sleep. There were more eyes watching, for one, guardsmen and thieves alike. 

More guards in response to the increased guild presence, maybe? Because there were _so many_ thieves. They were lit up in the palest shades of blue, groups tucked between towers and the even lone pickpockets patrolling in stolen uniforms. 

Ezio had probably found his note, then, or at least found their old setup.

He could flag down one of Antonio’s men, easy.

Desmond dragged his sight away from a retreating red back and focused on his breathing as he followed his brother, the two Assassins darting amongst the long shadows cast by the afternoon sun. 

Did Federico see the same colors as he did?

Lucy had been blue, too.

Desmond concentrated on the his brother’s hand where it wrapped around his own. It was like a chain of hot flesh, grounding, chasing away memories that fluttered about like the butterflies of Monteriggioni.

Ezio had never gotten to hunt with his Federico. The part of Desmond that still felt the loss crooned, answering that hot, too-small grip with an even smaller, terribly desperate one. 

His brother’s eyes gleamed, every movement effortless calculation as they circled unseen. Quick steps took them across a narrow, brick arch connecting two buildings. The older boy braced himself against the far wall and Desmond climbed up his back, pushing off his shoulders with just enough force to reach the edge of the roof and pull his annoying little body up. He flatted himself on the warm tiles and peered around, heart pounding in his chest. Familial blue-gold pulled itself up and pointed to a rickety haven of anonymous white.

The small _altana_ welcomed them with damp linens and carefully manicured herbs. If it was an Animus mission arriving would start the next sequence, the patience Bill so carefully cultivated wasted in a click of computer keys, but it wasn’t.

Nestled in the shade, Federico unloads his rope and they settle in.

Desmond rubbed a sprig of rosemary between his fingers. He hadn’t thought the gardens were actually a thing, Ezio hadn’t really used them as anything more than an obstacle to enemy eyelines… A gust of wind rattled the structure, weather beaten wood groaned under their feet and the drying sheets snapped about like loose sails.

The scent of salt was crisp and fresh on the breeze, the lapping of the lagoons waters audible on the wind. There was a lot of waiting on a ship. If he stood on his toes he could see over the rows of plants to where the lagoon glittered, broken only by the hazy imprint of a ship and its avian figurehead.

“ _Fratellino,”_ Federico called, head tilted as he followed Desmond’s gaze to the empty waters. Desmond blinked away the _Aquila_ , and leaned into the hand on his shoulder. “Come. I will show you how to anchor a rope. We do not wish to _kill_ the _kalb.”_

“I know how to tie knots.” The words came before he consciously thought them, and he realized they were true. He knew knots, lots of them, the same way he knew how to dual wield hidden blades.

Altaïr hummed, face turning upward as he checked the sky before steering Desmond back into concealment, pulling them both onto a sun faded cushion while flicking the end of the rope. “Show me?”

Desmond accepted the rope with a pout. It was thicker than his wrists. He wiggled closer to the furnace that was his brother and began making a wide loop. The bigger boy wrapped his arms around Desmond, letting little sounds of interest that warmed his cheeks as he finished his first offering. “So, this is a butterfly…”

“May I try?”

“...okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kalb is meant to be the Arabic for 'dog'. 
> 
> Our little demon child has finally tracked Sig. Rossi down and the plot can move ahead. You know. What little plot there is anyway.


	42. Chapter Thirty One 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one dies (but someone is about to wish they were dead).

Altaïr twisted the rope under Angelo’s attentive eye. The motions were slowly becoming rote, his repertoire expanding from the standard Assassin trio of noose, lasso, and gordian to a sailor’s dozen. Some of the new bindings were only applicable with a rail to wrap around, like ivy climbing a trellis, but in a city such as Venice there would be no shortage of those. All the forms were simple enough, meant to be undone just as quickly as they were tied but no less secure for it. 

A sailor had to be able to catch the wind, after all, and winds changed.

“You’re threading it through wrong. It’s a sheepshank not a sheepyank…” Angelo’s hands brushed over his own, unusually confident as they nudged him back out of the loop to bring the end of the rope under instead of over. His little brother paused, mouth quirking in a shy smile as he glanced up. “Like that.”

 _“Grazie.”_ Altaïr leaned down before the little angel could move away again and planted a kiss on the top of his head. _“Fratellino.”_

Angelo preened, like Maria after one of her kills, shoulders back and face tilting toward the sky. Altaïr gifted him another kiss, this time on his nose, and his little brother jerked back with a sound of dismay while clutching at his face. “Federico!”

Altaïr smiled to himself and went back to his practice. A few of the knots Angelo had demonstrated the Assassin had recognized, like the _clove hitch_ , though he hadn’t had proper names for them. His hands kept up with the motions as his mind wandered and his attention beyond the garden they hid themselves in.

His little brother was more than a child, had been an Assassin of the Brotherhood in another life, but he hadn’t considered… had he been a sailor? Assassins traveled readily enough. It was a necessity when information was as precious as gold, and those trusted to carry it had to be faster than a pigeon’s wingbeats. But to sail instead of smuggle? That was… Altaïr couldn’t deny the use of an Assassin owned fleet. A ship big enough could be a bureau unto itself, and the mobility would afford a certain security that the most hidden of locations could never match. 

But a storm could sink a ship.

The bigger the ship, the bigger the target for those who would wish them ill.

...had his little brother drowned, in his previous life? Swept off the deck by a wave never to be seen again? Pushed off and forgotten in a battle, perhaps fallen from a mast?

The Assassin reborn swallowed, throat aching with the memory of brine on his tongue, down his throat, in his lungs. His eyes stung, and it was a comfort to rest them on his youngest as he twisted a piece of lemongrass between his tiny, expert fingers. The grass tore and blew away on the wind before he finished the knot.

Altaïr slid out of his thoughts, straightening his spine along with his rope. A figure of molten gold -not the _Assassino_ ; his would-be Uncle fell short in many areas but he was a proper Assassin in at least _one_ thing- was making his way through the streets below. He had no guards, no friends, and why would he? Guards could be bribed, and friends…? Altaïr scoffed.

 _“Fratellino.”_ Altaïr whispered as he shifted plant pots and secured the rope to one of the garden’s supports. Within the palazzo they lurked up another figure, the white-gold of a pearl that had begun to loose luster, began moving upward. _“Partire.”_

 _“Nem, sayidi!”_ Angelo tugged his hood up before ducking around the billowing sheets and vanishing from all sight but that of the Eagle. 

Shortly after the door creaked open a true _belladonna_ stepped out. The Assassin watched from concealment as the strong winds tugged slips of sun drenched hair from elaborate braids. She raised a pale hand to shade unnaturally wide eyes as she looked for her lover, a thin book pressed to her small chest. Did she know what she was doing?

Yes, and no.

Did she care who she was hurting?

Yes, and no.

Was she innocent?

Perhaps.

The young woman’s entire body lifted, painted pink lips curling with joy as the traitorous dog climbed a ladder. The air of hungry anticipation around him soured into self satisfaction, as though such a young and impressionable _child_ waiting for him was something to take pride in. Altaïr’s lip curled, silently baring his own fangs.

 _“Papa!”_ Angelo cheered, smiling wide as he came running from around a nearby chimney. “I found you!”

 _“Che cosa?!”_ The man exclaimed, and Altaïr bit his own cheek to keep from breaking concealment as the _bastardo_ dared to kick _-_ kick! _-_ at his beloved little brother. The creature did not connect, his brother was swift and skilled, and oh but that look of hurt, of betrayal that painted his rosy cheeks was heartbreaking.

There would be cakes after this. Altaïr would see to it.

The book the maiden carried clattered against the wooden planks. Soft, delicate hands slowly curled into fists. Her whisper was sharp as knives. “You said you had no children.”

 _“La Bella?”_ The ungrateful dog questioned, cut off mid insult as Angelo continued his tearful protests.

“You told me she was barren!” The maiden snarled, a gorgon unleashed, arm snapping out to gesture to Angelo’s huddled form. “What else have you lied about? Are you really a merchant, or do you just go home to your wife and make up stories in her bed?”

 _“Prego, amore mio_ , I do not know this child. It is some, some trick the urchin plays to get, sympathy, or money, it is nothing-”

“He knows your name! _Papa._ He knew where to find you! What orphan goes to those lengths - unless he is not an orphan?!” The maiden took a full breath of air through clenched, barred teeth. “Do you mean to do this to our children, too? Did you tell your wife you love her, when you got her with child? Is that what you plan to do to me - only my uncle would _kill you_.

“Without a marriage, he would _kill us both.”_

“I _will_ marry you! Ekaterina is ill, and barren-”

Altaïr whipped his head back as a pot he was hidden behind went flying, shattering on the roof when it missed the _pezzo di merda_ it had been aimed at. In a whirl of skirts she turned away, vanishing down the short steps and through the small door. There was the heavy sound of a bolt sliding into place followed by a wet, gasping wail.

The creature’s arm lowered. He stared at the empty space his lover had occupied, something not unlike despair roiling through the wealth painted in his skin, and when he turned on the only target left there was nothing human in his expression. Nose scrunched, eyes pinched, anger in every inch - he was a beast unworthy of breathing.

Altaïr moved, the rustle of drying linens hiding the sound of his own footfalls.

“Who put you up to this, you vile little - hu?”

His aim was perfect, snaring the target as planned, pinning his arms to his side as the littlest Assassin skipped back to his side. Angelo smiled at the man’s confusion.

Altaïr did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Until 1582 when the then Pope went about standardizing Calendars Venice, Florence, and Rome all had different New Years. Venice celebrated on March 1st, Florence the 25th, and Rome was the only one that used Jan. 1st as the roll over. I don't know how, but I imagine the Medici/Giovanni took advantage of this in writing contracts/payment plans. 
> 
> “Nem, sayidi!” = Arabic, 'Yes, sir'


End file.
